


All The Devils Are Here

by lapsus_calami



Series: No One Chooses This Life [10]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AH YES, Angst, Bela Talbot makes an appearance, Cursed Object, Cyberbullying, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I dunno i'm making it all up, M/M, Stiles Has Issues, Stiles is a reckless little shit, Suicide, and john sleeps like the dead, dean makes a good mother hen, horses will be involved though none shall be harmed, i feel like i wanted to tag something else, unless there is evil afoot, where is this story going?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2018-12-06 05:31:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11593950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: Stiles is struggling to deal with what happened in Boston, Dean's growing more and more worried as he watches Stiles spiral, and John won't admit it but he's not sure what to do with Stiles. Simultaneously, the three work to solve the mystery of strange happenings at a horse stable in small Virginian town.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, here we are with part 10! Although things are still rough and I have a lot going on, I'm looking forward to getting back to writing a lot more. Thank you all for sticking with me these past months, and I hope you enjoy the story. 
> 
> (sorry it's up a little later than intended. traffic is a bitch and so is continuity and wifi and AO3. seriously fuck AO3 today, this is the eighth try)

**All The Devils Are Here**

“Stiles!” Dean yelled. “Catch!”

Stiles spun around, something glinting in the air as it soared towards him. He stretched his hands out and blinked when the bottle crashed by his feet, glass shattering on impact and ashes exploding outwards like a miniature storm cloud.

Fuck.

He heard John echo him as he stared at the smear of gray on the floor frantically trying to think of a way, any way, to fix this.

It still didn’t makes sense. The asshole was already burned so his spirit should already be at rest, but, no, this was what happens when people go amateur hour and cremate their dead on their own. They don’t use salt to make sure and, yeah, those were clumps of hair, bone, and teeth in that ash. Gross.

Something larger than a bottle flew by his head, smashing against the wall as Stiles dropped to his knees and tugged the duffle bag holding their supplies closer to him. He tore through it quickly, drawing out the lighter fluid and dousing it liberally all over the ashes and the floor. He might have gotten a bit on himself too, but didn’t pay it much attention. Grabbing the salt next he dumped until the ash pile with bits of body looked more white than gray before tossing it away and going for matches.

It took three attempts to light one, and then he was abruptly engulfed in flame and sprawling backwards with the distinctive stench of singed hair in the air. Taylor Ludwig went up in smoke much like his fortune had eighty some odd years earlier, blinking out of existence the way he should have the first time around. Dean was muttering expletives as he made his way over, stamping on what little remained of the fire before it could do much more than char the linoleum.

“You all right?” he asked once the fire was doing nothing more than a bit of smoking.

Stiles couldn’t decide what smelled worse: the melted tile or his burnt hair. “Fine,” he replied picking himself up off the floor and dusting his pants off. He was probably covered it bits of cremated dead person. For some reason he couldn’t decide if that made him want to laugh or cry.

Dean frowned reaching out to grab his chin for a moment, and Stiles beat down the urge to tear out of his grip. “You’re gonna look a bit funny for a bit,” he said. “What were you thinking lighting it when you were that close?”

Stiles shrugged. Honestly, he hadn’t even thought that far ahead. Hadn’t realized that lighting it right away meant he was still practically on top of it. Not one of his finest decision making moments for sure, but also far from his worst to be fair. It was hard to beat smacking an angry and merged mega-werewolf over the head with a wooden baseball bat after all.

Dean sighed. “Yeah, whatever,” he muttered moving to accept the bag John was handing him.

Stiles trailed after them as they left the house absently rubbing his hand over his chest in an attempt to loosen the ache that seemed to have taken up permanent residence. He slipped into the backseat without comment, sitting silently as John and Dean rummaged through the trunk for a minute before sliding into their respective seats up front.

The ride back to the motel was quiet save for the radio turned down so low it was nearly inaudible. Fine by Stiles who spent the drive with his forehead pressed against the window as he stared sightlessly out at the passing landscape. Couldn’t tell where he was from looking. John had told him when they arrived, but Stiles hadn’t really retained the information. Somewhere in Kentucky he thought. Or maybe it was Kansas. Something with a K. It was flat; that was all he really knew.

Dean rapped his knuckles on the window and Stiles jerked back surprised a little to see they were no longer moving. He shook his head he shoved the car door open and levered himself to his feet. Avoiding Dean’s gaze, which had been growing more and more concerned these past few days, Stiles made his way to the motel room ignoring both Dean and John to claim the bathroom for himself first. Given that he still reeked of burnt hair and was covered in a fine coat of dead guy he figured neither of the hunters would object much.

He showered on autopilot, soaping up and rinsing off quickly before deciding to just soak in the heat for a few minutes. A few minutes turned into a few more apparently because suddenly he was standing beneath a spray of cooling water with wrinkled fingers. He blinked, wiping water that was quickly approaching artic temperatures out of his eyes and twisting the knob to off. Standing in a silent bathroom save for the drip, drip, drip of water still falling in the shower Stiles abruptly realized he hadn’t thought to bring any clothes in with him.

Well, that sucked.

If he stood here any longer he was going to start shivering.

Stiles shoved the curtain back wincing at the screech from the hooks dragging along the bar and blindly reached out for a towel. He dried off his face first pausing a moment just to revel in the darkness offered even though the towel was scratchy and smelled of bleach and an unpleasant odor that vaguely approached mold.

But if he stood here any longer he really was going to freeze because the motel bathroom, for whatever reason, seemed to function as a large refrigerator.

The innocuous pile of clothes on the sink stopped him short because he definitely did not bring those in with him. A quick glance at the floor revealed his clothes that had been soiled with dead guy were also gone. Dean’s work no doubt, but Stiles hadn’t even heard him come in and it wasn’t like the crooked door was all that quiet.

He dressed quickly pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt and tugging the sleeves down over his hands before tossing the towel in the corner and slipping from the room. Dean glanced up as he exited, but John was buried in his newspaper. Probably best that he remained that way.

Stiles wouldn’t say he was exactly happy they were all sharing a room again. It certainly did little to help the sense that he was slowly being strangled as he was with them practically all day, every day. They could probably all use a little bit of space from each other, but that wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon though. Not with John watching Stiles like he was two seconds away from mind whamming one of them again. Stiles was fairly certain John’s newfound, although relatively uninformed, awareness of his abilities was the driving factor behind not allowing them to have two separate rooms anymore. Dean seemed rather peeved about it; Stiles didn’t much care. It certainly made it a lot easier to not sleep and say he did when Dean was across the room instead of next to him.

It wasn’t as if Stiles actually missed sleeping next to the hunter. Or even just sleeping for that matter. So what if his nightmares had returned with a vengeance this past week? There was no proof it was at all linked to Dean or, rather, the _absence_ of Dean. He knew how correlations worked. One thing decreased and the other increased, but there was no way he could actually extrapolate causality from just that. And there were so many extraneous variables as well to consider anyway.

Like John finding out and Stiles murdering someone.

Stiles settled himself on the cot blinking rapidly and ignoring the roaring in his ears and steel band around his lungs as he stared at the wall.

Breathe in. Breath out. Put that thought right back in the box it had escaped from. He wasn’t thinking about that. Not now. Not in a few minutes. Possibly not ever.

Stiles let himself fall back, curling up on the bed facing the wall so he could stare at the paneling inches from his face. He wasn’t going to think about Trevor. Dean and John shuffled around the room behind him, ambient noise that faded away in the background. He wasn’t going to think about Trevor. At one point Dean said his name, soft and barely there; Stiles didn’t respond. Just kept his measured breaths and pretended to be asleep.

He wasn’t going to think about Trevor.

He wasn’t going to think about John.

And he wasn’t going to sleep.

* * *

It was half-past eight when Dean pulled himself from bed the next morning. Dad’s bed was predictably empty. Stiles’ cot barely looked slept in. Dean wondered if Stiles had slept at all. He made his way to the bathroom, halfheartedly covering a long yawn and scratching his stomach. When he came back out several minutes later and a good bit more awake he heard Stiles’ voice outside speaking heatedly to someone. Partially concerned he and Dad were arguing yet again Dean peered through the drapes surprised and relieved to see Stiles on his cell, free hand gesturing dramatically as he spoke.

“No, I already spoke with them,” Stiles snapped. “And they told me to discuss it with you. So I’m not going to speak with the finance office again until you give me a clear answer.”

Dean frowned as Stiles paused, lips pursed in a thin line as his brows drew together.

“I understand that coverage has ended, what I don’t under—” Stiles clenched his jaw, hand curling into a fist. “No, listen, listen to what I’m saying. I understand that coverage is ending. What I don’t understand is how you can retroactively deny coverage when I filed an appeal.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Stiles closed his eyes breathing out slowly.

“I know the limit was reached!” he shouted. “That’s why I filed the appeal in the first place. And now you’re telling me it was denied? Eight months later? The fuck am I supposed to—”

Stiles rolled his eyes, lips twisting into a snarl.

“You want to talk about manners? Don’t bitch about my language when you’re the one working for a company that screws people over.” He paused briefly, then with even more bitterness, “So, what you’re telling me is that, in spite of the fact that he had coverage then and in spite of the appeal I fought tooth and nail to file, you aren’t covering any of it?”

Stiles pulled in a harsh breath.

“And there’s nothing I can do? No other appeal process? Nothing?”

His fingers clenched around the phone, free hand curling into a shaking fist. Less out of anger, and more out of despair judging by the expression on his face. Stiles closed his eyes at whatever the other person on the phone was saying before shaking his head.

“No, I think you’ve done enough,” he said resentment clear, “thanks so much for the help.”

Dean let the drapes fall back, snagging a pair of pants from the floor by his bag and jumping when the dumpster outside clanged loudly. Swearing and hopping across the floor as he buttoned his jeans, Dean yanked the door open and stuck his head out unsurprised to see Stiles kicking the shit out of the side of the dumpster.

“Stiles,” he called, “you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles snapped punctuating the statement with a final hard kick. “Everything is fucking fantastic.”

“You sure?” Dean asked as Stiles made his way over and shoved past.

“John went for breakfast,” Stiles said shortly instead of answering the question crossing the room to start shoving things in his bag.

Dean sighed dragging his hands through hair that was probably already sticking up in every conceivable direction before padding across the room to approach Stiles. He reached out slowly to place a light hand on Stiles’ shoulder disappointed when Stiles shrugged him off within seconds. “Hey,” Dean said edging around to try and meet his gaze. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Fine,” Stiles said again, the single word bit off and sour sounding.

Dean weighed his options for a moment raking his gaze over Stiles and not liking what he saw. Too tired. Expression pinched. Hands noticeably shaking. He looked upset. Worried.

It had never occurred before to wonder where Stiles got the money he always seemed to have. Never occurred to wonder who was paying for his father’s care at whatever hospital the man was at. Stiles had mentioned friends briefly in passing, mentioned Scott a few more times in greater detail, but he never gave any indication that any of them were helping support him.

Dean had been running credit card scams and hustling for almost as long as he could remember. He doubted Stiles, the son of a sheriff, had the same ingrained ideas.

“Stiles, that sounded like a rough phone call. If something’s wrong back home—”

“It’s none of your goddamn business,” Stiles snarled rounding on him. “Everything’s fine!”

The door eased open forestalling any further conversation as Dad surveyed the scene with furrowed brows, gaze lingering long and heavy on Stiles who stared blankly back. Dean nudged him, disrupting whatever weird stare down the two of them were having, and moved over towards his dad to gratefully accepting the Styrofoam cup of coffee.

He picked up the second one to hold out to Stiles who snatched in from his hand and headed towards the door bag already slung over his shoulder.

“I got sandwiches,” Dad called after him.

Stiles just shrugged his bag higher on his shoulder muttering, “Not hungry,” before pulling the door shut with a sharp thud.

Dad hummed reaching into the plastic bag he held to hand Dean a breakfast sandwich. “What was that about?”

“He got a weird phone call,” Dean said purposefully keeping it vague as he unwrapped the sandwich and took a big bite. “Somethin’ about his dad.”

Dad hummed again taking a long pull from his coffee. “Eat up,” he said. “We leave in ten.”

* * *

John cursed pushing the windshield wipers up to an even higher speed in an attempt to gain at least a little more visibility. It didn’t seem to help much, the deluge of rain obscuring just as much of the road and other cars as it had been moments before. John hated driving in rain this heavy. Hated the way it forced almost everyone to slow to nearly half the speed limit even on the interstate in order to avoid running in to anyone else. Hated the way it pounded on the body of the car causing what seemed like a near deafening roar. Hated the way it reminded him of Vietnam and the way it had just poured, poured, poured over there.

Dean, in contrast, had always seemed to love the rain. He didn’t like being in it. Didn’t like getting soaked, had moaned and groaned whenever John made him and Sam run PT in the rain. But he always seemed to like the sound. Even as a baby calmed down easiest when it was raining.

John glanced over at his son, reaching out to nudge the volume of the radio up loud enough so he could here it but still low enough that it wouldn’t wake Dean or Stiles. Dean had been asleep against the door almost since it started raining an hour ago, and Stiles had dropped off about twenty minutes ago leaving the Impala in an odd sort of silence where the only noise was the rain and the radio.

Stiles shifted restlessly in the back seat and John watched him in the rearview mirror as traffic once again slowed to a full stop. He sighed when Stiles’ eyes flickered open, gaze darting around the car as he pushed himself upright something like panic showing in his expression.

“Hey,” John said reaching out to turn the radio up a little louder. Dean would sleep through it as long as the rain held. “We’re almost three quarters of the way there. Thought we’d pull off for the night. Let the storm blow over.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed almost like he was unsure why John was speaking to him, but his posture had relaxed, attention neatly gained by a few simple words.

“Figured we’d grab some food before heading to a motel,” John continued, inching forward as traffic began moving but flicking his gaze up to watch Stiles. “Any input?”

Stiles blinked, then shook his head slowly. “Not hungry,” he said almost too soft to be heard over the rain.

John frowned. “Wasn’t asking,” he said. “You get a choice of where you eat, not if you eat. What do you want?”

Stiles slouched against his door, tipping his head back to rest against the seat. “Nothing greasy.”

Which rolled out convenience store or fast food if John wanted Stiles to do anything more than pick at a salad. He wondered if they could find a decent twenty-four hour diner around here. Maybe a deli place or sub shop. He glanced back again to see Stiles staring intently at his phone, thumb in his mouth as he chewed on his nail. John wondered if it had anything to do with his father, wondered if the other man’s health had waned or if, god forbid, he’d died. John hoped that wasn’t the case, for Stiles’ sake. Kid had more than enough to deal with at the moment.

John cleared his throat. “Your dad okay?” he asked gruffly staring resolutely out into the rain and not looking at Stiles’ wide eyes in the mirror.

“Yeah,” he answered after a few moments. “No change.”

John nodded flicking on his turn signal and easing onto the exit. “Good.”

Dean woke as John pulled into a Subway, immediately narrowing his eyes at the glowing sign and muttering something about hamburgers and fries. John ignored his grumbling and led the way into the shop. They got their food to go, three twelve-inch subs, a round of drinks, and a couple bags of chips. At the last minute Stiles slid a cookie on the counter; John pushed it over to the cashier without questioning.

He got them a room at the first motel they came across not all that far from the Subway ignoring the scowled Dean didn’t hide well enough when he asked for a cot. Stiles didn’t seem to have any problem with it, and John wasn’t sure why Dean did. His oldest might still be a little pissed about what John had said to Stiles in Boston, but Stiles had let it go so John wasn’t going to entertain any of Dean’s passive-aggressiveness over it.

It was late when the got in, rain continuing to fall heavy from the sky. Dean ate quickly and turned in, bidding a quiet good night to Stiles who was still picking at his sandwich. In the end he managed half of it, which John counted as a win even as his balled up his own empty wrapper to throw in the garbage. Stiles ate the cookie, nibbling at it in small bites as he poked at his phone. John went through the motions of getting ready for bed slowly, watching as more and more of the cookie disappeared and the furrow in Stiles’ brow grew deeper.

When he turned in twenty minutes later and clicked the bedside lamp off Stiles was still sitting on his cot, face illuminated by the screen of his phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's really good to be back, but my update schedule is still not going to be quite back to what it was yet. I'm going to aim for two weeks, but I'm not going to lock myself in to any one date.
> 
> Please feel free to follow my [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com) for updates on when the next chapters will be posted.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is struggling to deal with what happened in Boston, Dean's growing more and more worried as he watches Stiles spiral, and John won't admit it but he's not sure what to do with Stiles. Simultaneously, the three work to solve the mystery of strange happenings at a horse stable in small Virginian town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, because I have a problem apparently, this story will also be dealing with **suicide**. 
> 
> Second, hey, I'm back! You guys are all great, I hope you know that. Please know how awesome you are. 
> 
> Third, there is no third. Just read.

**All The Devils Are Here**

The hallway was empty. Devoid of people and cast in wavering shadows as the florescent lights overhead flickered. Stiles stared silently down the long expanse. It seemed odd that a hospital should be so empty. Unusual and unsettling. He moved forward slowly, the only sound his echoing footsteps as he walked. In spite of the oppressive desolation his skin crawled like countless eyes were fixed on him.

At the end of the corridor the elevator dinged, doors sliding open to reveal an empty carriage. They closed slowly with a resounding thud only to open and close once again. Repeating endlessly as Stiles watched, a heavy weight settling in his chest and growing sense of dread.

The doors slid closed then open, this time revealing a body within, illuminated intermittently by the lights still flickering overhead.

Stiles drifted nearer, breaths quickening with each thud and ding of the elevator doors. He stood just outside staring down at the face of man he felt he should know but did not recognize. When the doors slid open again Stiles stepped inside and knelt beside the man as the light flickered on, still with no understanding to the wild panic the man’s face elicited. The lights flickered off and the doors slid closed. For a long and terrifying moment Stiles was enveloped in total darkness. When they opened again Trevor lay on the floor before him, staring up with empty eyes.

Stiles fell backwards trying to scramble away but his hands and feet sank into the floor. Looking down Stiles tried to cry out but found the scream locked in his throat. Hands clutched at his limbs and clothes, dragging him into a growing pool of dark blood threatening to swallow him whole while Trevor stared on.

The doors slid shut.

* * *

Dean internally sighed as Stiles startled awake fifteen minutes after dozing off, but he wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t exactly expected Stiles to sleep long, not slumped over the table on top of his computer like he’d been, but he’d hoped Stiles would sleep _longer_. Rest just wasn’t to be had, however, much like the last nine days Dean had been watching.

Stiles blinked owlishly, looking around furtively in a manner that suggested he was quite spooked by whatever had woken him. He stared at his hands for a solid thirty seconds before shoving back from the table and disappearing into the bathroom. Dean followed him with his gaze, sighing as the door shut and turning to his father.

“Are you sure this job is a good idea?” Dean asked pitching his voice low because motel walls were universally thin pieces of crap. Stiles probably wouldn’t hear anyway, but it never hurt to be careful.

Dad pursed his lips carefully shuffling through his papers without looking up. “You have a problem with it?”

“Come on, Dad,” Dean said leaning closer and dropping his voice even lower. “Suicides? You really don’t see how that might be a problem?”

“We can’t coddle him.”

“I’m not talking about coddling him, Dad,” Dean protested disbelief clear in his tone. “I’m just saying it might be something that should be considered—”

Dad finally raised his gaze to meet Dean’s eyes evenly. “Is it a problem for you?”

The blunt question made Dean take a figurative step back as he considered his next words. “Of course not, but—”

“No arguments.”

“Dad—”

“Dean,” Dad interrupted holding up one hand. “It’s not ideal, but he needs to focus on something other than Trevor.”

Dean bit his lip, falling back in his chair and refraining from mentioning that they’d just finished up a perfectly distracting ghost hunt that hadn’t seemed to accomplish much in the way of distraction for Stiles. More than anything Dean thought he actually needed a break and to actually sleep.

And four suicides of high school students were not going to be at all conducive to that goal.

Especially not these suicides. Three males, one female. All juniors from the same local high school. All kids who were well engaged in the community, active on sport teams or extracurriculars, and, by all publically accessible accounts, going good places with their lives. Certainly not the sort of kids to take their own lives out of the blue although Dean was well aware that outward appearances meant very little sometimes.

Dean frowned down at the four photos laid out in front of him. It was a shame, really, that four such young kids had met such a tragic end. He wasn’t sure if it was more or less of a shame that they probably hadn’t committed suicide. Eventually decided it was neither. After all they were still dead, but the stark truth of it meant their families would probably always question why.

Glancing over the basic information his father had put together Dean’s stomach twisted uncomfortably as he realized the victims were all the same age Stiles and his friends had been at the Glen Capri. Some other hunter could have easily been looking at four very similar photographs if Stiles and his friends hadn’t managed to escape. Dean eyed the closed bathroom door wondering if the case was exacerbating Stiles’ struggles or if it was just more of the same since Trevor.

The bathroom door clicked open and Stiles returned to the main room, eyes bright and alert. The collar of his shirt was slightly damp, no doubt a result of the water he’d splashed on his face. He joined Dean back at the table, reclaiming his uncomfortable wooden seat and squinting at the papers in front of him.

“We should go to the school tomorrow,” he said after a moment of shuffling papers. “See if we can find anybody who knew these kids.”

“Is that really a good idea?” Dean asked. “Don’t you think it might be a bit…creepy? Two grown men talking to a bunch of kids?”

Stiles blinked at him. “One,” he said, “you’re the creepy grown man. I’m the one who should technically still be _in_ high school. Two, I didn’t suggest we sulk around the halls like some kind of creepy were—whatever. We hang around outside, at the field of whatever fucking sport these people play, and see what happens.”

Dean glanced at Dad, questioning without speaking. Dad simply nodded his acquiesce. “I’ll speak with the families of the victims. You two can work on locating peers. They’ll likely have significant input the parents won’t.”

“Okay,” Dean said glancing between the two. Stiles for his part didn’t even seem to acknowledge Dad had spoken. “Sounds like a plan.”

* * *

“You know, upon review, this is a terrible plan.”

Dean frowned, squinting in the bright sunlight streaming across the football field and slanting a pointed look Stiles’ way for some sort of elaboration.

“I mean, loitering here, particularly with you in your oversized leather jacket and resting murder face, we look like a couple of drug dealers,” Stiles said leaning against the chain link fence.

“Resting murder face?” Dean repeated incredulously.

Stiles gave a sharp nod. “Oh definitely.”

“I do not have a resting murder face.”

“Dean,” Stiles said swatting him gently in the torso before pointing at a small group of three girls climbing up to sit in the bleachers while the football team gathered on the field. “There’s who we should be talking to.”

Dean hummed. “Not the cheerleaders?”

“You don’t have to be a cheerleader to be popular,” Stiles said running a hand through his hair to tousle it in front of his face and pulling the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands as he made his way over to the bleachers. Generally, he looked like a sorry excuse for a sad high school student. Dean trailed after him, staying a step behind as they approached the girls and suddenly aware of how damn young Stiles was still. Christ, he was only Sam’s age and right now he looked it.

The three girls were clustered together, dressed warm for the chilly morning air. They looked up with mild suspicion as Stiles got closer, the short blonde in the middle perking up as the obvious spokesperson. “Hi,” she said tilting her head slightly to the side like Stiles and he were some puzzle to figure out.

“Hi,” Stiles said sounding a bit uncertain. He was really playing up the lost puppy image, just like Sam. “I’m sorry to interrupt but, uh, my friend and I…well, I’m looking for some answers? About my friend Darrel.” Stiles shuffled awkwardly as the girls all glanced at each other. “It’s just…no one from his family will really talk to me because I only knew him online, and—”

“Oh my gosh, are you Brian?” the brunette on the right asked one hand covering her mouth.

Stiles paused, clearly caught off guard. “Em, yes. How did you—”

“Darrel talked about you all the time,” the brunette said reaching out to grab Stiles’ arm and pull him towards her. Stiles stumbled, clearly caught off balance. “Sit down. We’ll tell you everything we know.”

“Uh, thank you,” Stiles said sitting a bit heavily. Dean frowned lowering himself to the bench with far more grace.

Now that they were all sitting the girls didn’t seem to know where to start. Finally, the blonde ran a hand through her hair and asked, “I take it you know how he died?”

Stiles shifted, dropping his gaze to his feet. “Yeah. Killed himself.”

“Drowned himself,” the blonde said bluntly. “In the tub.”

Stiles’ breath hitched as he shifted again, shakily raising a hand to his mouth. “I, um…He didn’t say anything—”

“Everyone was shocked,” said the third girl who’d be silent up until now. “I mean, nobody even suspected.”

“What was he like?” Dean asked nudging Stiles shoulder with his own because the other boy seemed to have checked out for a moment. Stiles shook his head. “Brian here has only told me so much.”

The blonde huffed. “Darrel was great. Quarterback. Straight As. Did cross country. Played golf. Was on the debate team. Everybody loved him.”

“But he was sweet too, you know?” the brunette added. “He was nice to everyone even the people no one likes. Helpful. Kind. And he really liked you, Brian. Said you were the first person he could really be all of himself with. He was so happy after meeting you we all teased him about thinking you hung the moon or something.”

Stiles scoffed leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Hung the moon,” he repeated softly. “As if.”

“I’m sorry,” the third girl said. “That his family isn’t more open to you guy’s relationship, I mean. That must be really hard.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah, it is,” Stiles replied while Dean blinked in surprise. “I knew what to expect though. That part, unfortunately, was not a surprise.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Dean interjected. “Darrel isn’t the only suicide, right? There’s been a whole string of them.”

All three girls glanced at each other expressions ranging from unsettled to disturbed. “No,” the blonde finally said, “he’s not. The school has had…counselors here all month because of the number of students offing themselves. They think it’s a pact or something.”

“Which is stupid,” the brunette said. “Chelsea hated Gavin’s guts. There’s no way she’d have a pact with him.”

“Like there was no way Darrel would ever drown himself?” the third girl snapped.

The brunette sighed. “Well, what about Adam? He was in a completely different social circle. None of us even knew who he was before he hung himself.”

The third girl sniffed. “Maybe that’s why he did it,” she said. “To get away from the shallow jackasses at this school.”

“Include yourself on that list,” the blonde said. “You didn’t know his name before either.”

“How many have there been?” Stiles interjected staring vacantly across the field. “The suicides?”

“Just those four,” the blonde answered then laughed. “Just. That’s where we are. At just four.”

* * *

Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel glancing intermittently over at Stiles who was silent as he stared out the window. Too quiet as he had been every since Boston. Since Dad scared the shit out of him and Trevor tried to kill him. No wonder Stiles had trust issues.

“Why’d you ask how many there were?”

“Hmm?” Stiles replied still looking out the window.

“The suicides,” Dean said masking all worry from his tone. “You went over those files for hours with me. Didn’t you remember how many there were?”

Stiles turned finally giving Dean a puzzled look before his expression cleared. “Yeah, of course. I just wanted to clarify. Make sure we hadn’t missed anyone.”

“You forgot,” Dean said calling him on his bullshit lie.

“I didn’t forget,” Stiles snapped. “I just…I blanked for a moment. That’s all.”

Dean sighed. “How much sleep—”

“No.”

“What?”

“No, I’m not having this conversation with you,” Stiles said deliberately turning back to the window so Dean could no longer see his face. “It’s not a crime to having something slip your mind.”

Dean pursed his lips, shaking his head as he turned onto the street with the police station where Dad needed picked up. It was seven minutes down Fifth before the station came into view and another minute just waiting to make a left into the parking lot. Dad was waiting by a bench outside looking as out of place as ever in his penguin suit. Dean’s not sure what story Dad spun for this case; the FBI wasn’t likely to take an interest in four suicides of high school students but the boys in suits were also the most reliable cover.

Dad slid into the back without comment settling into the seat before asking what Dean and Stiles found out from the school while Dean eased back out onto Fifth this time heading for the motel. Dean relayed what the girls had told them glancing over at Stiles a few times as he did so. Stiles, for his part, seemed content to ignore the conversation. That or he’d managed to fall asleep again, but Dean wasn’t holding out hope.

“All the deaths were ruled suicides,” Dad shared and Dean noticed Stiles’ shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. “Not even one shred of foul play.”

“You thinking this isn’t one of ours?” Dean asked.

Dad shook his head in the rearview. “No. Just means we need to keep digging.”

* * *

“You know, at first I was just sort of impressed with the amount of coffee you’re ingesting, but now I think I’m in the realm of actual concern.”

Stiles snorted even as he took another gulp from his admittedly over-sugared coffee. “I’ve gone on worse binges in high school,” he said following it with another draw as he clicked through Adam’s school file. Of course, his coffee binges then had little to do with actual school. First it was whatever caught his fancy—male circumcision, police codes, serial killers. Then it became werewolves and banshees and demons. Now it was simply the more coffee he drank the less he needed to sleep. The less he slept the less he dreamed, and coffee plus Adderall was the best method he had to keep himself awake. He’d need to nap soon though; he was straying into dangerous territory at thirty-six hours without sleep. That and the words kept swimming on the computer screen whenever he tried to focus on them and he was pretty sure he’d read the last sentence about nine times by now.

“Stiles.”

Stiles blinked looking over to Dean who was staring blatantly at him with furrowed brows. “Huh?”

“Unbelievable,” Dean muttered under his breath shaking his head before pushing himself to his feet and leaning over to shut Stiles’ laptop. “Okay, you’re done for the day. Time for bed.”

“I’m not a child,” Stiles protested. “You can’t just put me down for a nap.”

Dean scoffed. “I can and I will,” he said snatching Stiles’ coffee cup from his before he had a chance to move. Frustrating because Stiles was pretty sure his reflexes were usually faster than that. Yet another example of why he’d need to sleep soon, but Stiles was sure he could make it to forty-eight before actually subjecting himself to any dreams.

Dean shuffled him towards the cot in the corner though Stiles didn’t remember getting up from the table. “You’re dad’s bringing back food,” he pointed out turning to slip free of Dean’s loose hold.

“If I thought you’d actually eat anything I’d almost buy that excuse,” Dean said easily grabbing him and steering him back again. “Lay down. Sleep. I’ll wake you in an hour.”

“Half an hour?” Stiles asked allowing himself to be pushed down to the cot.

Dean shook his head. “One hour,” he said firmly.

One hour. How many dreams could he have in an hour?

“Promise?”

Dean crouched, reaching out with an uncharacteristically gentle expression on his face as he pushed Stiles back into the pillows and brushed strands of his hair back. He settled his hand on Stiles forehead, leaving it there as Stiles struggled to keep his eyes open.

“Dean.”

“I promise, Stiles. So just sleep, yeah?”    

* * *

Stiles was standing in a basement.

Stiles was standing in _the_ basement, standing beneath the stairs facing the wall. Once upon a time he would have naively called the image drawn on the wall a backwards five. Now he knew it to be kanji.

Oneself.

Pulling in a steading breath Stiles turned around, surveying the basement with a critical eye. It was just as he remembered it. Dark with slanting shadows. Lurking shapes hidden away along the edges. A single wooden staircase descending in the middle. A bear trap and puddle of blood illuminated by a faint light from upstairs.

His ankle throbbed as he rounded the steps, a phantom pain from a dream that never happened in actuality but turned out to be all too real anyway. Heart thundering in his chest Stiles paused at the edge of the blood. He knelt slowly reaching out as his ears roared and the walls constricted around him.

The blood on the floor was still wet staining the tips of his fingers red.

_Whoareyou?_

Stiles jerked his fingers back, rising to his feet and retreating to the wall across from the stairs and placing his back against it.

_Whoarewe?_

“It’s just a dream,” Stiles whispered squeezing his eyes closed. “It’s just a dream.”

Cold doused over him, ice slithering down his spine and along his extremities. His hands were shaking as he reflexively opened his eyes at the sound of shuffling footsteps.

_It belongs to you, but others use it more than you, what is it?_

The Nogitsune stood within the halo of the light at the bottom of the stairs with hunched shoulders and wrapped hands. One arm stretched out, beckoning him closer.

_What is it?_

Stiles pressed himself further into the wall behind him, once again clenching his eyes shut because this was dream. It was only a dream. Only a dream. A dream. He repeated it to himself over and over, willing his racing heart and trembling limbs to calm. It was only a dream. It wasn’t real.

Ragged breathing approached, a slight shift to the air.

_It belongs to you, but others use it more._

Hands seized him, gauze scratchy against his skin and grip strong.

_What is it?_

He screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind words, and I want you to know that even if I don't respond to your comment I do read and appreciate every single one so very much. Seriously, knowing these fics bring people enjoyment is literally the most awesome of feelings right now, so thank you. 
> 
> I'm not even going to try and set a date for Chapter 3 but I'm going to be a loose goal at getting it up around the end of December.
> 
> Always feel free to come chat or nag on my [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com).


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is struggling to deal with what happened in Boston, Dean's growing more and more worried as he watches Stiles spiral, and John won't admit it but he's not sure what to do with Stiles. Simultaneously, the three work to solve the mystery of strange happenings at a horse stable in small Virginian town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, I added more tags so check those out. And, um, enjoy the chapter? :D (It is one thirty in the morning here and I am very tired but can't sleep, ugh)

**All The Devils Are Here**

Stile hadn’t so much as twitched in the last forty-five minutes. Dean refused to admit, but he was watching Stiles obsessively enough he would have noticed if even and eyelash flickered.

Not that he was creeping or anything.

He was just keeping watch.

Dad had returned with burgers and fries about twenty after Stiles had dropped off. Even that hadn’t garnered even a shuffled dissent at the noise. Stiles just slept on through, curled around a pillow completely dead to the world. If it weren’t for his audible soft breaths Dean would be concerned. As it was he was seriously debating letting him sleep beyond an hour as he swirled his last fry in a dollop of ketchup and popped it in his mouth.

The sudden ragged scream that tore through the room surprised Dean even though he’d been watching. One second Stiles was sleeping peacefully, the next he was writhing in the sheet screaming like the cries were being ripped from his throat. Dean just stared for a moment, stomach dropping as the world seemed to upend, the next he was launching himself across the room.

Dad was already on the bed, one arm looped across Stiles chest and the other holding one of Stiles’ flailing arms. “Dean,” he ordered, “Grab his legs.”

Complying instantly Dean struggled to confine Stiles’ kicking legs before he hurt himself or smashed a hole in the wall. “Stiles,” he said. “Stiles, you’re okay.”

The screaming hadn’t stopped. Dean was unnerved to realize Stiles’ eyes were open, staring blankly across the room as he screamed and twisted in their grips. Dad was whispering in his ear, voice low and gruff; Dean couldn’t make out the words.

Abruptly, Stiles quieted. It was almost scary how his last scream just cut off in the middle, silence enveloping the room apart from Dad’s murmuring.

“What the fuck?” Dean said fingers still loosely wrapped around Stiles’ ankles.

Dad paused his shushing, threading his fingers through Stiles’ sweaty hair as Stiles continued to cling to his arm and stare vacantly at the room with intermittent whimpers. “It’s a night terror,” he answered tone quiet. He ran his hand through Stiles’ hair a few more times. Stiles blinked long and slow, tension easing from his limbs as he quieted. His eyes slipped closed and stayed that way.

“A night terror?”

“You used to have them,” Dad said. “When you were little.”

Dean furrowed his brows. “I don’t remember—”

“That’s usually the case. And it’s better that way,” Dad interrupted shaking his head. “The things you used to say to me when you were asleep…It’s better you don’t remember.”

Dean swallowed hard, shifting his gaze to Stiles’ face as his mind conjured up all the possibilities. Ghosts, hunters, demons, his dad, Trevor. God the possibilities were practically endless with him. Dean had his own share of nightmares over the years though he had never remembered anything more than waking abruptly and quietly after them. Certainly never screaming like someone was trying to kill him. Not like Stiles.

 _One hour_ , Dean thought, _that’s all it took. One fucking hour._

Stiles was already stirring again, subconscious forcing him awake. He blinked, breaths quickening as he sat up and darted his gaze around the room.

“Shit,” he breathed taking in Dean and Dad next to him. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Dean said. Stiles frowned looking down and loosening his fingers from Dad’s arm like he’d been burned. “It’s fine.”

Stiles’ sharp laugh startled Dean, eliciting a slight flinch. “Sure. Fine. Everything is fine,” he said shoving now at Dad’s arm and pulling his legs from Dean’s grip. “Get off me, please.”

Both hunters backed off immediately with Dad going as far as the table while Dean remained at the foot of the cot. Stiles started at him, expression going more and more panicked the longer they sat in silence. Dean opened his mouth to speak but Stiles beat him too it.

“I need some air,” Stiles said pushing his way off the bed and nearly running to the door. He paused only long enough to grab his coat before slipping through without another word.

* * *

“All right, I’ll bite,” Dean said sipping at his coffee Stiles had brought back after his walk. As he had hoped, neither Dean nor John had mentioned his hour long absence. “Why are we at a horse stable?”

“Because,” Stiles replied wrinkling his nose a bit as a horse taller than his head was led on by, “the new death breaks pattern and now this is the common denominator among them.”

“And it wasn’t before?”

“Before no one else had been killed from the stable so I chose the school,” Stiles said. “Now a kid’s dead from the stable ergo…he looks important, let’s talk to him.”

Stiles made his way across the barn, skillfully avoiding both other people, horses, and piles of poop as he headed for the tall man wearing what could only be described as a horse friendly business suit and shiny black boots. After a moment Stiles recognized Business Guy as the founder of the school, Mr. Gerald Foster. Next to him stood a shorter man with unkempt hair, an obnoxious, yellow plaid shirt, and mud caked work boots.

“Hi,” Stiles said bulldozing right on into the heated discussion the two men were having without a care. It didn't matter what they were talking about anyway. This was important and Stiles needed answers because so far this case made very little sense.

The men both turned to eye him in surprise, the man in the business-like attire looking like he just couldn’t believe Stiles’ audacity to speak to them. Stiles simply arched an eyebrow and waited until he heard Dean come up beside him.

“I’m Agent Rick and this is my partner Agent Morty,” Stiles said flashing a badge he’d pulled from the car and ignoring Dean’s warning look shot his way.

“Bit young for an agent, ain’t you?” Foster asked.

“I’m a genius,” Stiles replied dryly. Dean kicked his foot. Stiles blinked.

“Uh, we just have a few questions,” Dean interjected probably before Stiles could pull any more crap out of his ass. “About your students, if you don’t mind?”

Yellow Plaid Man narrowed his eyes. “Which students?”

“The dead ones,” Stiles said then shrugged as Dean trod on his foot again. “And a few of the living ones.”

Foster puffed up his chest. “I don’t know who you think you are—”

“Agent Rick,” Stiles said again pointing at himself then Dean. “Agent Morty. I did introduce us.”

“Look,” Foster said sternly, “I don't know what interest the FBI has taken in a few suicides of kids, but I can assure you it has nothing to do with the school.”

“A few suicides,” Stiles repeated talking over whatever Dean had opened his mouth to say. He took a step closer, poking Business Guy hard in the chest. “Five of your students are dead, Mr. Foster. That’s five children dead, of course the FBI takes an interest and you will answer our questions or I will have you detained for obstruction of justice.”

“You, you can’t do that,” Foster said but he looked unsure.

“I can hold you for forty-eight hours without a reason, buddy. And if you don’t show a modicum of respect for your dead students I swear to God I’ll do it,” Stiles hissed. He paused, taking a deep breath and leveling his voice again. “You have a string of serial suicides. That’s something you should concern yourself with.”

Yellow Plaid Man scoffed. “There’s no such thing as serial suicides,” he said. “That’s absurd.”

“Then what would you call it?” Dean asked clearing his throat. He shifted, leaning slightly into Stiles’ arm.

“I don’t know. Accidents. Whatever. And we are concerned.”

“But,” Foster interrupted, “we don’t want to draw attention to the suicides in the media. It would look very bad for the school.”

“So would the words ‘headmaster doesn’t give a shit,’” Stiles said bluntly. Foster and Yellow Plaid Man exchanged equally alarmed looks.

Dean pasted on a charming smile. “What can you tell us about the dead students?”

* * *

“Well that was a bust,” Dean said as they left. “And what the hell with the names? I mean, Rick and Morty? Real creative.”

“It was the first thing that came to mind,” Stiles replied carefully sidestepping a pile of horse manure. “And it wasn’t a bust.”

“It wasn’t?” Dean asked. “Because I got very little information from them.”

“Exactly,” Stiles said stifling a yawn and willing his exhaustion away. He wasn’t going to sleep, not anytime soon. Maybe not ever again. “They know more than they’re telling us which means we are in the right place with this. We just need to get more information about the school, find out what John got from the families and then come back with a list of specific questions designed to dig up the dirt on this place. That and talk to other students,” he added yawning again.

“Right,” Dean said. “Okay, but right now I’m taking you back to get more sleep.”

“No!” Stiles protested a little too quickly. “Uh, I mean, let’s go somewhere to eat first. Maybe that bar we passed?”

Dean arched an eyebrow at him. “You want to go to a bar?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said shrugging. “I’m hungry.” And he wasn’t, not really, but if it postponed Dean’s nagging about his sleeping habits a little longer then he could force down half a burger and some fries.

“All right then,” Dean agreed with his own shrug. “Lets go to the bar.”

It didn’t take long at all to get there. The first thing Dean did was go to hit the head, so Stiles worked his way up to the bar and order several shots which he promptly drank while ignoring the disapproving look from the bartender who obviously didn’t know how to mind his own business. It Stiles was going to be bullied back into sleeping he wasn’t going to do it sober. And who knew, maybe the alcohol would keep the dreams away. Because that was all they were—dreams. Regardless of what or who was in them. He ordered a few more shots just to be safe before ordering food—two burgers and a basket of fries—then wandered out to find a suitable seat and waited.

The place wasn’t as loud as he hoped, but still pretty busy for mid-day. Stiles judged they must be near a college campus somewhere with the amount of young and inebriated individuals patronizing the establishment.

Dean arrived back well before the food, obviously, and Stiles didn’t think it was too noticeable that his head was starting to swim and everything looked just a little bit blurry. It was taking the edge off though and Stiles felt himself truly relaxing for the first time in weeks. Dean started up a string of words that Stiles didn’t bother to focus on, just watched Dean’s mouth move until the food arrived occasionally offering an indifferent hum whenever Dean looked his way.

They ate in relative silence, Stiles actually wolfing down his burger as his stomach churned hungrily. After he was finished he started in on the fries, methodically picking one up, dipping it in some ketchup, before popping it in his mouth and chewing. Dean raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment, simply eating his own food at a remarkably slower pace than Stiles.

Once Stiles was finished he wandered in the direction of the bathrooms but paused distractedly by the game tables as one guy shoved another back hard with a sharp accusation about cheating. He was never one for inciting fights, not really. But he also wasn’t one for keeping his mouth shut and was quite good at pressing the right buttons to get the right reaction.

He wasn’t sure what prompted him to speak up. To tease and mock and prod until the loser was beet red in the face and seething. To continue until the first punch went flying. He didn’t move even though he knew it would connect, let it impact hard to his cheekbone. At the explosion of pain Stiles knew exactly what he was doing. His mind finally quieted, the ache in his chest abating, blood thrumming with adrenaline.

Stiles smiled and swung back.

It was an unfair fight. About six college students against the likes of him. The odds were certainly not in his favor if he wanted to win. But considering he only wanted to get bloody and punch something, it was working out splendidly. He yelped as someone landed a solid hit on his kidney and threw his elbow back, grinning when it connected with something hard and elicited a gasp of agony. He shoved the man in front of him back with a knee to the groin and found himself slammed into the pool table. He wrapped his fingers around the eight ball, launching it into the face of one of the men when he was pulled up. He shook the man’s arms free and headbutted him like he’d seen people in the movies do; it hurt a lot more than he thought it would have, but it was for the best and he didn’t bother to try and doge the punch the man returned. It sent him reeling and a second later he found himself being hugged to the chest of someone who could only be a linebacker, arms crossed over his chest, hands around his wrists, and air uncomfortably restricted as the linebacker squeezed.

How had Dean taught him to break this hold? Hands flat, palms out, apply pressure in a downward motion with core strength, and voila. Stiles dropped to the floor, unable to catch his balance as the man holding him suddenly wasn’t holding him any more. Instead he twisted around, kicking out at the closest knee and smiling at the pain that burst from the return kick to his stomach. Stumbling to his feet, Stiles snatched a mug off a table and smashed it into the face of yet another bar patron who was too close for comfort. His hand found yet another glass, fingers tightening around it ready to throw, but he dropped it as someone grabbed him from behind. Stronger hold, one arm around the neck, another pulling his arm behind his back.

Dean then. Pity, he thought, and let himself go limp.

* * *

When Stiles first started a bar fight Dean had to blink in order to make sure he was seeing correctly. It wasn't until Stiles headbutted the one man and stood absolutely still for the returned punch that Dean leapt from his seat, quickly making his way to the other side of the bar. He shoved one guy out of his way then grabbed Stiles in a secure, but loose, chokehold that would be difficult to break free from.

“That’s enough!” Dean shouted letting his voice thunder and yanking Stiles back several steps. “Enough!”

It seemed to shock the others into a standstill and Stiles had already conceded defeat in Dean’s grip. Dean huffed, resisting the slight urge to tighten his hold, and eyed the group of men surrounding them. “We’re going to leave now,” he said evenly, stepping away and pulling Stiles with him.

“Your friend was only getting what he deserved,” one of the college students spat holding a hand over his bloodied nose and slurring his words a bit.

“I was only saying that you—” Stiles started before Dean gave him a rough shake and he changed the direction of his statements. “Gentlemen,” he said offering a lazy salute even as he listed to the side and had to be held up by Dean who shifted his hold into something gentler. “My overprotective knight in rusty armor says I must go now. I am terribly sorry. Actually, no, no I’m not.”

Another man, supporting his own guy with a broken nose, stared at Dean incredulously as if he couldn’t believe the words that had come from Stiles’ mouth. For Dean’s part he didn’t quite believe them either.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s time to go.”

Time to get out of dodge before anyone got the bright idea to call the cops. Time to remove Stiles from the situation before he could goad anyone into causing any more damage to anyone present. Time for Stiles to actually sleep again and regain some of his senses.

By the time he got Stiles outside he was seething. The first thing Stiles did was straighten up and push Dean away as he tilted his head up towards the sun and laughed.

“Mind telling me what the fuck that was?” Dean asked, barely keeping his voice even. “Because that was a whole other level of stupid for you.”

“Relax, I was just having some fun.”

“By letting them beat the shit out of you?” Dean snapped.

Stiles blinked, refocusing on Dean for a moment before resuming his trek to the car. “Why are you mad?”

Dean fumed grabbing his arm hard enough to bruise while yanking him around. “Because you’re doing it again,” he said wondering how Stiles could be so oblivious. “You keep pulling stupid shit like that an’ you’re gonna get yourself hurt. Worse you’re gonna get yourself killed. And I don’t think you even care, it’s like you want to die.”

Stiles’ lips thinned, pressing into an aggravated line as he forcibly pulled his arm from Dean’s grip. “I don’t want to die,” he said.

“You don’t care if you do then,” Dean spat voicing a fear he didn’t want to acknowledge. “Trust me, there ain’t much of a difference.”

Stiles swallowed, glancing away before looking back. “Can you blame me?”

Dean’s eyes widened, brows climbing up towards his hairline. “Yes!” he said incredulously. “Everyone’s suffered, all right? And you got people that care about you. This crap you’re pulling? Getting into fights, not sleeping, not eating. It’s selfish.”

“Everyone’s suffered?” Stiles parroted with a scoff. “You watch your friends try to kill themselves because of a suicide spirit? No? You been tortured by hunters threatening to kill you and your friends? Have they held a gun to your head and pulled the trigger? You been forced to torture someone you care about? To listen to their screams and their begging and not be able to stop yourself? You been forced to kill a person with your own hands and then be put in the position where you have to do it again? No? Then _shut up._ ”

“You ever watch your mom burn to death?” Dean countered. “Or your dad vanish into a bottle while spouting stuff about demons and monsters? Anyone ever try to take you away from your father because they think he’s lost his goddamn mind? Been left alone at motels for days and weeks without enough money to get by? Patched your dad up when he came home with wendigo scratches or bullet holes? No? It’s not a fucking contest, Stiles. Everyone’s got their shit.”

“Fuck you Dean,” Stiles said, blinking back tears.

Dean sighed, closing his eyes to collect himself. After a few moments he said quietly, “Get in the car, Stiles. Please.”

“No, I need some air,” Stiles replied voice rough. “I’ll walk.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’ll walk.”

Dean growled in frustration kicking at the tire, any semblance of calm he’d managed to fine vanishing. “Fine,” he snapped yanking open the driver’s door. “Suit yourself. Keep your fucking phone on.”

He forced himself not to look back as he drove away.

* * *

It only took a block of walking for the aches to set in and for Stiles to seriously question what the fuck he thought he was doing. But for five glorious minutes he hadn’t been thinking about this hunt, or Trevor, or the Nogitsune, or the riddle bouncing around his mind.

_It belongs to you, but others use it more._

Stiles shook his head trying to banish the words. It didn’t bear thinking about because it was only a dream. But the more he tried to push it away, the more it invaded echoing in his mind until he was certain he could hear it, could feel the Nogitsune’s breath on his face and hands around his throat as it rasped in his ear.

_It belongs to you, but others use it more._

It was only a dream, but Stiles’ hands were shaking, breaths shorting, one thought running continuously through his mind, because what if it wasn’t just a dream?

Stiles dialed the number from memory with trembling fingers almost without a conscious decision to do so and it was ringing by the time he brought it up to his ear. He held his breath counting the rings, as they seemed to go on forever. Finally Scott answered.

“’Lo?”

He sounded half asleep. Stiles almost laughed when he realized what time it must be in Beacon Hills right now. Too damn late, that was for sure. Or maybe it was so late it was too damn early. Either way Stiles must have woken him up.

“Hello?”

Clearer now. He was waking up, no longer half asleep.

“Hello? Who is this?”

 _It’s Stiles_ , he said silently in his mind, heart hurting so much it felt like it might burst, _I'm sorry but I need help_.

“Anyone there?”

 _I need you to tell me it wasn’t my fault. I need you to tell me it’ll be okay,_ he said the words burning hot in his chest but unable to force them out as they caught on the lump in his throat. _I need you to tell me I’ll be okay._

“Okay then,” Scott muttered. There was a shuffling sound, a beep, and then utter silence.

Stiles pressed a hand over his mouth and kept the phone cradled to his ear as he slid down the brick wall and buried his head in his arms.

* * *

Dad was asleep and Dean was getting antsy by the time Stiles got back. He eased into the room nearly without a sound, and Dean figured he’d go straight to his cot in the corner. Dean slowed his breathing into practiced, even breaths in case Stiles didn’t want to engage at all or feel compelled to talk. It surprised Dean when Stiles slipped into bed with him; he couldn’t help but stiffen as Stiles settled in close with his forehead resting between Dean’s shoulder blades and a hand twisted in Dean’s shirt. After a moment Dean relaxed listening to Stiles’ breaths behind him and waiting for them to slow. When his breathing didn’t even out Dean twisted around slowly, shuffling down a bit so he was face to face with Stiles, just able to make out his features in the low light filtering through the drapes.

“I don’t want to die,” Stiles said softly, whispering as if it were some precious secret. His gaze searched Dean’s face, and Dean wondered if he found whatever he was looking for or not. “It’s just, I know it shouldn’t bother me, but I can’t stop seeing his face. He looked so surprised, when I pulled the trigger.”

“You shot a man, Stiles,” Dean said. “In self-defense because he was trying to kill you.”

Stiles bit his lip, quiet for the longest time before glancing up at Dean through his eyelashes. “I’m trying to be better,” he said, uttering the words like a confession.

Dean frowned in confusion stumbling his way through a reassurance. “It’s gonna take time. You don’t just get over stuff like—”

“No,” Stiles interrupted with a small shake of his head. “I mean _better_. A better person. A better friend. A better son. Just…better.”

And Dean surged over without thinking, pressing his mouth to Stiles’ and asking permission to enter with a swipe of his tongue. Stiles parted his lips easily, leaning back slightly as Dean pressed forward, licking into Stiles’ mouth like he was mapping a battlefield one hand buried in the pillows and the other in Stiles’ hair. Stiles tasted faintly of whiskey and desperation, a flavor that made Dean’s rapidly beating heart feel heavy. He didn’t kiss Stiles long, pulled away sooner rather than later just enough to whisper against Stiles’ lips.

“You’re good enough as you are.”

Stiles’ eyes flickered open to meet Dean’s, gaze assessing and slightly unsettled making Dean question for a moment if he’d crossed some line he hadn’t realized was drawn in the sand between them. That idea went flying out the window a second later when Stiles rolled on top of him to straddle his hips and kiss him deeply.

After that Dean threw thinking out the window as well because Stiles was warm and hovering over him and kissing him as if it was the only thing that mattered. Dean surged up to meet him, cupping the back of his head to angle the kiss deeper, uncaring that the angle strained his neck. He wrapped his other arm around Stiles’ waist, urging Stiles to spread his legs further and rock against him. A moment later he was deciding it wasn’t enough and easing Stiles back so he could settle more fully in Dean’s lap when the bed let out a loud creak and Dad’s rhythmic breaths were interrupted by an equally loud snuffle and shifting.

Stiles froze, lips poised over Deans and hands hot under his shirt. “Fuck,” he breathed and pulled away, swinging his leg over Dean to leave the bed.

“Hey,” Dean whispered reaching out to catch his wrist.

Stiles paused but glanced over at Dad meaningfully. “I can’t stay,” he said.

Dean sighed, closing his eyes and letting Stiles go as he rolled onto his back. “Fuck,” he said scrubbing a hand over his face before pointing at Stiles. “Try and sleep, you hear?”

Stiles huffed, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. All he said was, “Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a blanket thanks and much appreciation to everyone who comments. I haven't had the energy to go through and reply but please know I cherish and love hearing from you guys. 
> 
> Um, I'll try and have the next chapter up soon meaning in about three weeks probably. Or four. 
> 
> As always you can inquire about updates on my [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is struggling to deal with what happened in Boston, Dean's growing more and more worried as he watches Stiles spiral, and John won't admit it but he's not sure what to do with Stiles. Simultaneously, the three work to solve the mystery of strange happenings at a horse stable in small Virginian town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back. Took me long enough, huh? Yeah, well, life sucks and then you write fanfic so...
> 
> (this was so long ago I should include a recap but I'm not going to)
> 
> ((it still needs edited too but I'm also not going to do that right now either))
> 
> (((look at all the fucks I give, oh wait, there are none)))

**All The Devils Are Here**

Stiles’ head, when he woke, protested loudly. A quick glance at his phone showed he’d slept an undisturbed two hours, which was a resounding record of late. A gift horse Stiles wasn’t about to look in the mouth. He pushed himself off the cot, treading lightly past Dean to the bathroom where a quick and chilly shower helped him feel more awake.

Yawning, he took up residence at the table to go over their files once more. Five suicides, all teens, different means of death. One drowning, one fall, one overdose, one hanging, and one gunshot. The first four were linked by school, but the fifth was an outlier. All five were linked by the equestrian stable, but not, it seemed, to one another. Difference disciplines, different classes, different instructors, different horses housed in different parts of the stables. All popular and good kids according to Foster and the parents. Leading examples of awesomeness according the peers except Adam who’d only been described as quiet and a bit of a loner but generally nice.

Stiles pushed the files away leaning forward to rest his head on the table. Already he was feeling the press of exhaustion behind his eyes and for a moment he contemplated actually returning to bed before deciding not to risk it. Coffee. Coffee would have to do.

He shrugged his coat on and left the room quietly. On his way to the diner he checked his messages pausing as he noted the voicemail from his dad’s insurance. Listening to it as he made his way into the diner Stiles grit his teeth as the woman once again delivered bad news. The next message was from the billing department at the hospital discussing payment options. Stiles bit his lip, forcing himself to listen to the whole message before setting his phone aside as he slid into a booth.

“You look like you’re not havin’ a great morning.”

Stiles looked up, blinking twice at the absolutely sunny face smiling down at him. “Oh,” he said. “No. I mean, I guess not. Can I get a coffee, please?”

“Of course,” the waitress chirped flipping blonde hair over her shoulder. “Anythin’ to eat?”

“Uh, toast.”

The waitress paused, pen poised over her pad. “Toast?” she repeated.

Stiles nodded. “Yeah. Just toast.”

“Ya know we got the best pancakes in the county,” she said. “And that ain’t me just pluggin’ the diner. I really believe that.”

Smiling tightly, Stiles nodded again. “Thanks, but I’m really just good with toast.”

“Okay,” she replied, sing-song. “But if ya change your mind, I can getcha anythin’ you’d like,” she said eyeing Stiles up and down with a generous smile.

“Just toast, please.”

“Coming right up,” the waitress said twirling away with a wink.

It was only a few seconds later when Dean slid into the booth across from him looking wide-awake even without his daily cup of coffee. Stiles sighed, tugging the sleeves of his hoodie down and preparing himself for the inquisition. There was absolutely no way Dean would just let the events of yesterday go without a fight, but Stiles was far to drained and frustrated to try and explain himself.

He was surprised when Dean simply pulled the menu over and started perusing it silently. When Stiles toast and coffee came, Dean tsked and promptly told the waitress to bring Stiles some eggs.

“Protein’s good for you,” he said tapping the menu.

“Good you have a friend lookin’ out for you there,” she commented. Stiles hummed and nodded as he gratefully took a gulp of his coffee.

“And I’ll have coffee and the breakfast platter, uh, Jennifer.”

“Jenni,” the waitress corrected with a bright smile.

Dean returned the smile ten-fold. “You spell that with a y or an i?”

Jenni looked confused for a moment before shaking her head an answering with a grin, “With an I, sugar. Why?”

Dean’s grin widened. “No reason.”

Jenni chuckled, assuring them she’d be back soon with their food before walking away. Dean watched and gave a low whistle before waggling his brows in Stiles' direction.

“Seriously?” Stiles said a bit cross. “Do you try to sleep with anything that has a pulse?”

Dean pursed his lips and sipped at his coffee with a shrug, expression smoothing over. “I have some standards. I thought she was pretty cute.”

“Did you really?” Stiles asked sarcastically.

Dean smirked. “Touchy much? When was the last time you got laid anyway?”

Stiles felt himself flush, heat climbing up his neck as he gripped his coffee tighter. Though not high on the list of things he wanted to discuss with Dean it was far from the lowest so he'd take it. “Uh, you know. Like fi-four months? Three? I don’t really remember.” He gulped from his mug as Dean stared at him with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re a terrible liar sometimes,” Dean remarked.

Stiles rolled his eyes, tossing in the proverbial towel. “Fine. So maybe I haven’t actually, like, _slept_ with anyone. Who cares?”

“Ever?” Dean said setting his coffee aside and leaning forward, eyes alight with something like excitement. And the man said he wasn’t into gossip like twelve-year-old girl.

“There wasn’t exactly a lot of opportunities for me to get the sexy on with anyone,” Stiles said defensively pitching his voice low and glancing at some of the other patrons. “I was more concerned with not dying and keeping other people from dying.”

“There’s always time for sex,” Dean said palms flat on the table, still leaning in. He, apparently, had no issue if the whole diner heard them. In the past Stiles wouldn't have cared either. Now the idea of such attention made his chest ache. “If you do it right it doesn’t take more than a few minutes and it’s still awesome.”

“Okay, Casanova,” Stiles said still deferring to a lower voice and waving a hand at Dean. “But in order to have sex in a few minutes I’d still need someone to have sex _with_.”

“No one would have sex with you in your hometown?” Dean asked. “Did you talk the ears off of every guy and girl that took an interest?”

Stiles laughed a little self-deprecatingly, swirling his beverage. “Honestly, there wasn’t that many that took interest in the first place,” he said.

“Really?” Dean asked looking a tad surprised as he sat back and crossed his arms. “No one? You’ve kissed all your friends but no one would sleep with you?”

“Most of those kisses were for varying reasons that mildly resemble the same reason I kissed you in Oklahoma,” Stiles said then frowned lightly. “And also one really awkward occurrence with my best friend.”

“So no sex for you,” Dean mused. “Ever. That’s sad. Tell me something.”

“What?”

“You've been running with me and my dad for a couple months now. You've been in the clear. Not focused entirely on keeping yourself or others alive. And aside from me, I’ve never once seen you even trying to get laid,” Dean said regarding Stiles curiously.

“Guess I’m just not that interested.”

“Not interested?” Dean repeated raising his eyebrows. “In sex?”

Stiles shrugged, playing with cutlery.

“You’ve never had sex! How do you know you’re not interested?” Dean asked, personally offended it seemed. Several of the other patrons in the diner glanced over, one older man also seemingly affronted. 

“I’ve never _really_ had sex,” Stiles corrected absently.

Dean narrowed his eyes, a glint in them that said he knew he’d hit on something. “What does that mean? You’ve _kinda_ had sex before? How do you _kinda_ have sex?”

Stiles shook his head with a snort. “Have you never been a real teenager?”

“No, I sprang from my father’s forehead fully grown. So what? You have a bad house party experience?” Dean said.

Stiles frowned mind fleetingly going to Heather before settling on the basement of Eichen House. “Something like that,” he murmured. 

“So,” Dean said drawing the word out, “what happened?”

Stiles glanced at him appraisingly, blinking to dispel the image in his mind. “You really want to hear about my depressing almost first time? I’ll warn you right now it’s not a good story.”

“Neither are a bunch of my early times,” Dean said drumming his hands on the table. “Lay it on me.”

“Okay,” Stiles said taking another pull from his coffee and trying to gather his thoughts into actually sharing the story in the shortest way possible. “It, uh, was with this girl I barely knew in a nightmarish basement of all places.”

“You dog,” Dean said grinning.

Stiles blew out a long breath. “And it happened while I,” he cleared his throat roughly, “while I was possessed.”

The grin fell off Dean’s face instantly. “Wow. Uh, Stiles, I, that’s just…” he started but let the sentence fade away uncertain of what to say.

“Yeah,” Stiles said focusing on the table and resolutely not looking at Dean.

“Were you…you?” Dean asked.

Stiles nodded tapping his fingers along the mug. One, two, three, four, five. “It was one of those rare moments where I was actually in control. I was alone, somewhere I didn’t want to be, sleep deprived out of my mind, still half-drugged to be honest, possessed by a literal nightmare, I thought I was going to die, and she was just…there.”

“Wow,” Dean said again releasing a tightly controlled breath of air, “that is just...”

“Horrible,” Stiles finished. “I know.”

“So, no sex for you since then?” Dean asked.

“Dean, I’ve spent the last half of the year traipsing across the country fighting all kinds of nightmares after nearly dying from being possessed by a Japanese chaos demon that literally tried to kill every person I cared about and a few that I didn’t while recovering from a mental breakdown and spiraling into panic attacks every three days. Sex really isn’t a priority for me at the moment.”

Dean nodded slowly, visibly processing before saying, “You should ask, ah, Jenni. Maybe she’d be into it with you. I could watch." The last part was said with a grin and expressive brow movements that were almost comical. 

“That would…be kind of hot,” Stiles admitted honestly meeting Dean’s gaze to see something dark and heady growing in his eyes. “But the last thing I want to do is get hot and heavy with some stranger from a diner.”

“Do you want to get hot and heavy with me?” Dean asked abruptly.

Stiles stared at him for a long moment debating the answer. Finally, he licked his lips pulling in a careful breath. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t…I don’t really know what I want with you.”

* * *

"We're looking for Dennis?" Stiles asked. 

The girl jerked her head over her shoulder hands busy with one of the many straps on her saddle. "Last stall. Short guy, dark hair. Wearing muck boots." 

"Thanks," Stiles said edging past her horse with care as she gave a particularly hard tug on the strap that had the horse snorting loudly. Dean followed him a step behind, feeling just a bit too close as he had all morning since their conversation at the diner. Stiles was studiously ignoring all implications. Dean seemed happy to let him, but there was unaddressed tension between them now that Stiles wasn't all that fond of acknowledging. 

There was indeed a short, dark haired boy in the last stall wearing what Stiles presumed were mucking boots. He was, at the very least, mucking the stall so Stiles felt confident in calling out, "Dennis?" 

The boy turned, big blue eyes blinking from behind thick-rimmed glasses. "Yeah?"

"Agent Rick," Stiles said pointing to himself. He shifted to point at Dean. "Agent Morty. We have some questions for you." 

The rake Dennis held drifted down as he stared at them in surprise, a large clump of manure falling to the ground. "Agents...like FBI?" 

"That's right," Stiles said. "Now questions. Foster said you've been working here for several months." 

Dennis snorted and dropped the rake to the floor entirely to lean on it. Stiles' eye was drawn for a moment to the thick ring Dennis wore around his right ring finger. It reminded him of the similar ring Dean wore on his own right hand. "It's community service, but sure let's call it work and pretend I get something out of it." 

"You don't?" Dean asked. 

"Muddy boots and the perpetual smell of manure in my nose. Pretty much it." 

Stiles raised an eyebrow at the bitterness in Dennis' tone, but found he couldn't really fault him. Stiles had done his fair share of community service as a young teenager though never at a stable. Many summer days had been wiled away picking up litter from along side the roads as his dad followed him slowly in a cruiser with the lights flashing so no one accidentally ran him over or cleaning out the basements of the police station and school with an officer overseeing the process from a comfortable seat while Stiles lugged around boxes nearly as big as he. Then, Stiles couldn't have imagined a worse way to spend his days though time had certainly cured him of the notion that no fate could be more terrible. 

"How long have you been here then? Foster said a few months. I'm guessing you know the exact date," Stiles said knowing from personal experience Dennis probably had a count down somewhere. 

Dennis rolled his eyes. "Three months, couple days. Got another three months left."

"You familiar with any of the kids that have died?"  Dean asked crossing his arms to lean against the stall door. 

"Familiar?" Dennis echoed with a shrug. "I knew them if that's what you're asking. I know most of the students here. Happens when you're suddenly in charge of taking care of their horses and tack and stuff." 

Dean pursed his lips and nodded. "How well did you know 'em?" 

"I cleaned up their horses' shit," Dennis said. "We weren't friends. Like most of the other kids here they were well off and entitled. Not really the kind of people who would hang around with the son of a garbage man." 

"Entitled?" Stiles picked out. "What do you mean by that?"

Dennis quirked a brow. "Like entitled. You know, think they're better than everyone else. Think other people should do everything for them."

"Popular," Dean filled in and Dennis shrugged again.

"Sure. Popular too though not all of them. You don't have to be popular to be an entitled asshole."

Dean hummed. "You didn't think highly of them then?"

"You could say that, but rest assured they didn't think highly of me either."

"So it was a mutual thing," Stiles concluded.

"Yeah," Dennis said with a bit of a sneer. "It was a mutual thing."  

Stiles surveyed him carefully; he was open about answering the questions but something felt off. "Were you surprised?" Stiles asked. "When Darrel drowned himself?" 

There was a barely there hesitation before Dennis answered, gaze flicking between Stiles and Dean. "Everyone was surprised. Darrel was a popular guy. Top of his class. One of the best dressage riders here. He was a mean bastard, don't get me wrong, but that guy was going places and he knew it." 

"So you don't think he'd commit suicide?" 

"Well he did, didn't he?" Dennis said. "Who knows? Maybe all the pressure finally got to him?" 

"What about the others? Did the pressure just get to them too?" Dean asked with a small shrug as he too regarded Dennis shrewdly.

"Maybe they all just got sick of their blessed lives."

Stiles' heart twisted at the hatred in the words. "Why are you on community service?" he asked suddenly. "What happened?"

Dennis hesitated again before sighing. "I had a bit of an altercation with another student at my school. And I may have broken said student's nose a little."

Dean huffed out a half-laugh before trying to cover it as a cough.

"Yes, I know, amusing," Dennis said with yet another eye roll. "The other guy started it, but he got off with a slap on the wrist reprimand and I got six months community service and suspended."

Dean cleared his throat gathering his composure. "Who was the altercation with?" 

 "Just another dude at school. He ruined this book I was reading. I punched him in the face. End of story."  

* * *

In the end Dean and Stiles talked to eight students, four instructors, the headmaster, and seven stablehands. The resounding consensus was no one saw the deaths coming and no one had even suspected there was any cause for concern. If it had only been one or two kids, Dean might have doubted it was their kind of case. But five was a suspicious amount that nothing save the preternatural could explain. 

Dad had spoken with all the families and received the same story. Good kids. Going places. Had plans for the future. Seemingly supportive families. All the protective factors a person could want. Dean was well aware, though, of how things could appear one way and in reality be another. 

Case in point: Stiles. Who was once again almost out of ear-shot arguing with someone on the phone. Dean had caught enough by now to know it had something to do with his father and insurance. Extrapolating from that Dean guessed Stiles was finding himself in a lot of debt because of medical bills. Dean could only imagine the amount of money that would be owed for the care of someone in a coma.  

 "How much do you think it costs?" Dean asked. 

Dad hummed behind him distractedly, his own phone held between his head and shoulder. Dean didn't know who he was talking to either. "Cost of what?" 

"Stiles' dad to be in the hospital this long," Dean clarified squinting at Stiles who was now pacing back and forth. 

Dad glanced over. "They wouldn't keep him in the hospital this long, he'd be in a-" Dad broke off turning away from Dean and back to the map he had spread over the Impala's hood. "Yeah, I'm still here. What is it?" 

Dean diverted his attention from Stiles to his dad. "Who are you talking to?" As expected he got no answer. Sighing he looked back to Stiles, letting Dad's words wash over him and half-listening for any clue as to what the phone call was about. 

Dad finished before Stiles did, hanging up without so much as a goodbye. He tucked his phone back in his pocket before folding up the map. "That was Caleb. He's got what he thinks is a hodag up in Michigan. Needs a hand with it. I'm going to head up, leave you and Stiles here to keep digging." 

"A hodag?" Dean repeated, ever curious and unfamiliar with the term.

"Wisconsin cryptid," Dad said. "Nasty sons of a bitches when you corner 'em."

Dean nodded. Seemed par for the course for the supernatural. "How long?"

"Three days. Think you can handle it?"

Dean pushed down his natural reflex to shrug and instead answered promptly, "Yes, sir."  In fact, no only could he handle it, he was looking forward to it. He shied away from the comparison of two teenagers left to their own devices with the parents gone, and instead told himself it was strictly in Stiles best interest to just...share Dean's bed for a night or two. It had absolutely nothing to do with the other night when Stiles was in his lap. Nothing. 

"Here," Dad said, and Dean abruptly dragged his thoughts back to the present. Dad was holding out a small orange bottle he'd produced from the Impala's glove box gesturing impatiently when Dean failed to take it right away.  

“What’s this?” Dean asked accepting the prescription bottle in confusion. Small, oblong red pills rattled around inside. 

“Ambien," Dad said leaning down to tuck the map back in the glove box. His voice came slightly muffled from the inside of the car. "For Stiles.”

Dean closed his hand around the bottle. He was surprised at the answer and not without reason. Dad getting a prescription for anything other than pain or an infection was unheard of, and even then it was rare. Dad's go to method for sleeping was alcohol. Nothing more, nothing less. “What?”

“He needs to sleep.”

And, yes, Dean agreed. But. “So you want to drug him?”

Dad sighed again, running a hand over his face as he straightened up and turned to level Dean with an exasperated expression. “No, Dean, I want to help him. It’s an option.”

“So why don’t you give them to him?”

Dad just about scoffed. “He’ll take them easier from you, Dean. I’m not blind.”

Dean flushed, opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. It wouldn't do to give any type of response. All he'd manage to do would be to incriminate himself further. So he stayed silent and pretended he didn't hear any deeper meaning in Dad's words than simple observation of the fact that Stiles trusted Dean far more than he trusted Dad at this point. 

"Take it easy while I'm gone," Dad instructed swiftly ignoring Dean's awkward moment of silence. "And I don't care if you handcuff him to the bed, make him rest." 

Dean felt his face go even hotter and hoped his dad wouldn't notice. "Yes, sir." 

* * *

 Stiles hung up with a huff of frustration, pressing his phone to his forehead and counting to ten before he felt steady enough to draw his attention back to the hunters instead of the thousands of dollars he apparently still owed Beacon Hills Hospital and Seneca Place in spite of his father now being on Medical Assistance through the state of California. If he thought about it too long his throat threatened to choke and there was a deep seated burning behind his eyes. 

"Stiles." 

And there was John. Stiles ran a hand over his face and schooled his expression into something calm and unbothered before he turned around. "Yeah?" 

"I'm headed to Michigan for three days. I'm going to leave you here with Dean, but I expect you to behave," John said and there was an odd sort of weight on the last word. Like John meant more than the simple act of Stiles not getting himself into trouble. It was a loaded word, and Stiles recognized it for what it was: a warning. John didn't want Stiles to do anything _to_ Dean and there would be hell to pay if he did.

Lucky for Stiles, causing any kind of harm to Dean was the farthest thing from his mind.

"Got it?" John said, and Stiles nodded dutifully. "I want you to take it easy while I'm gone, too. Rest. You're no good to us dead on your feet." 

Stiles nod was just a tad bit slower, but he nodded all the same. It wouldn't be the first empty promise he'd made to John and it likely wouldn't be the last either. John clapped him on the shoulder, given a firm squeeze and slight shake before letting go and making his way back to the car where Dean still waited. The two of them exchanged a few final words, and then John was getting in the car and driving away leaving Stiles and Dean alone once more. 

Dean crunched his way over on the gravel, big shit eating grin on his face and one hand fiddling with something in his pocket.  

"Let's go get food," he suggested. "I'm feeling pie." 

* * *

 Dean played with the stupid prescription in his pocket the whole way through dinner. Even the pie wasn't enough to distract him fully from his thoughts about how best to present the idea to Stiles. Thankfully, Stiles didn't seem to pick up on his distraction, far to occupied by his own thoughts and picking at his food. In the end, though, he did manage about half his meal so Dean wasn't going to complain. They paid and left, leaving the diner side by side, shoulders occasionally brushing as they walked back to the motel. 

Dean waited until they got back and Stiles disappeared into the bathroom to pull the bottle fully from his pocket. The pills rolled around inside looking harmless to him, but holding a much deeper meaning for Stiles particularly with the story about his almost first time still flitting through Dean's mind. Still half-drugged he'd said. And to be half-drugged he'd been outright drugged at some point. Sleep deprived and half-drugged, so a stimulant, maybe, keeping him awake. Somewhere he didn't want to be; Dean knew he'd been at a psychiatric hospital for a period of time. He wouldn't have gotten stimulants there, quite the opposite, he'd have been given sedatives. Which was likely if Stiles had been the same there as he was now; they'd have forced him to sleep. So sedatives. Like the medication Dean held now. 

He was still holding it when Stiles came out in a cloud of steam dressed in his usual sweats and an oversized hoodie that Dean was pretty sure actually belonged to him. He shook his head, not the time to question clothing. 

“Here,” Dean said holding the bottle out.

Stiles turned to face him and blinked before reaching out to accept it, warm fingers brushing over Dean’s as he turned the bottle around and just stared at it. “Zolpidem,” he read slowly. “I don’t...”

“It’s Ambien,” Dean explained. “To help you sleep.”

Even before he finished speaking Stiles was already shaking his head and thrusting the bottle back.

“No. No. Absolutely not. Dean, I’m not taking that.”

“Stiles, you aren’t sleeping,” Dean said rising from his seat on the bed as Stiles backed away to the small kitchen area. “You haven’t slept more than two hours at a time since we left Boston, and it’s showing. You’re slower, you’re irrational, you’re getting distracted, you look like crap—”

Something like pain flickered across Stiles’ face as his fingers clenched around the bottle. “Well, I’m sorry if I’ve been an inconvenience—”

“I’m worried,” Dean interrupted, wanting to make sure Stiles understood. He paused for a beat letting the words sink in then, “You need to sleep.”

Stiles shook his head again. “I am.”

Accepting the bottle back with a sigh Dean twisted the cap off and shook a single little red pill into the palm of his hand. “One should do it,” Dean said.

“Dean—”

“It’s really not a choice, Stiles,” Dean said shifting his tone to something more gentle but final all the same.

Stiles swallowed taking another step away. A few more and he'd be out of room, backed into a corner. “Meaning you’ll force me if I don’t?” he asked.

“Do you trust me?”

Stiles stared at him, the moments stretching out long between them while Dean waited. And he would wait. As long as it took. “If I say no?”

“Then this pill goes back in the bottle,” Dean said promptly. “And I’ll just punch you in the face to knock you out instead.”

Stiles huffed with a faint grin and his shoulders relaxed just the slightest. “Unconsciousness is not restful sleep.”

“I know,” Dean said shaking the pill bottle so it rattled. “Ergo.”

Stiles held a hand out for the pill shifting his stare to it after Dean dropped it in his palm. He still looked hesitant. Uncertain and anxious in a way that made Dean’s chest ache and reminded him inexplicably of Sam when he was younger and still looked at Dean like he was a savior on a pedestal.

“Look, you take that,” Dean said. “We go to bed. We’ll have the room to ourselves until Dad gets back. I’ll stay with you.”

Stiles dry-swallowed the pill not bothering to reach for the water Dean offered him. He blinked a few times after, like he expected it to put him to sleep on the spot. In case it did kind of work like that, after all what did Dean know about sleep aids, Dean took his arm and guided him over to the bed before pushing him down to sit.  

"I can't believe I actually took that," Stiles said, blinking a few times in rapid succession. "I must really be crazy to trust you." 

"I'm sure it's not the craziest thing you've done," Dean returned, rounding the room to shut off the lights and lock the door. 

"You're right. That was letting my almost-girlfriend drown me in a tub of ice water." 

Filing that bit of information away for a later time, Dean flicked off the last light leaving the room in shadows. He shuffled slowly back to the bed, mindful of the obstacles in his path.  

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” Stiles said, voice softer in the darkness, almost like a confession.

“Do what?” Dean asked reaching the edge of the bed and sitting down. He could just make out Stiles' face, expression thoughtful.

“Keep myself together. Get up when I fall down. What if one day I can’t make myself get up? What if one day it’s just too damn much?”

“It’s okay to need help. You went through hell,” Dean said.

“No I didn’t,” Stiles said, tone shifting to something distant.

Dean frowned in confusion.

“Hell is empty,” Stiles continued hollowly staring at the ceiling. “All the devils are here.”

The words sat heavy in the room between them full of implications. Eventually Dean replied, “Are you quoting Shakespeare?”

“Maybe.”

Dean settled down beside Stiles so he was facing him, close enough to touch but not enough to crowd. “Misery,” he said pillowing his head on his arm, “acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.”

Stiles huffed, shuffled so he was facing Dean. “Are you calling me strange?”

“We can both be strange if you want.”

“I think I’m stranger than you.”

“Yeah, you definitely are,” Dean said thinking of everything he knew about Stiles and all the things he still didn't know. “Now go the fuck to sleep.”

 When Dean blinked awake several hours later, about five and half the clock informed him, Stiles was still asleep and tucked into his side, one arm thrown over his chest and face buried in his neck. Dean swallowed tentatively pulling Stiles closer and skimming his fingers down Stiles’ back. The other boy didn’t so much as stir, breaths even and deep.

Wrinkling his nose in displeasure as he suddenly became aware of the insistent signal his bladder was sending him, Dean shuffled out of the bed leaving Stiles sprawled in the middle with full intention to return after he’d relieved himself. When he came back out Stiles was sitting up in the middle of the bed looking disoriented and unhappily awake. 

"You left," he said, accusation clear in his tone. 

Dean leaned against the bathroom doorway with a sigh. "Had to piss." 

Stiles just frowned at him, blinking slowly like he was still half-asleep. "Fuck biological needs," he said.

Dean huffed out a laugh before crossing the room and flopping back into the bed. Stiles followed him down, landing heavily on his chest before squirming around to get comfortable again. Dean shifted to accommodate him, more than happy to oblige. In minutes Stiles' breaths evened out again, eyes closed as he breathed easy. Dean smiled to himself, pillowing his head on his arm so he could watch Stiles sleep. 

 "Next time I'll just hold it."

It didn't take him long to fall back asleep either.  

* * *

Dean next woke alone in the bed, but it didn't take long to locate Stiles at the table bent over his laptop with a Dunkin' Donuts bag next to him and coffee in hand. Dean sat up, stretching to relieve cramped muscles and gave Stiles a good once over. A night of sleep had done wonders though Stiles still looked a little worn. 

"Good morning," Dean said and Stiles jumped a little before glancing over and grinning. 

"Dean. I figured it out. I mean, kind of. Most of it. But not the important bit, not yet." 

Dean huffed out a small laugh. "Slow your roll and lay off the coffee, dude." 

"What? This?" Stiles asked shaking his cup carefully. "No. Still mostly full. But I am wired. I haven't felt this great in ages. Since stargazing. I can't tell if it was the Ambien or you, thinking it's you, but I am stoked. I need me more of that."

Dean furrowed his brow at the abrupt turn around regarding the medication he felt he'd all but forced on Stiles. "Man, I know Ambien is addictive, but I don't think it works that fast."

Stiles looked up again, blinking innocently in confusion. "I was talking about you," he said pushing his chair back from the table. He paused in front of Dean, something like hesitation playing across his features before he pressed a hand to Dean's cheek and leaned down to kiss him without any warning. Dean opened his mouth in surprise, surprised again when Stiles took it as an invitation to press closer.  

He tasted of coffee and sweets. Donuts probably, Dean thought, as he tentatively swiped his tongue across Stiles' to chase the flavor. 

Stiles was breathing a little harder when he pulled away, eyes alight with confirmation. "Definitely you," he said and Dean had no idea how to respond to that, palms sweaty and heart racing from such brief contact. What was he? Twelve? He surreptitiously wiped his hands on his shorts and cleared his throat. 

"You said you figured it out?" he asked hoping Stiles would go with the abrupt change in subject. Stiles grinned a grin that probably would have made Dean weak in the knees if he was standing and stepped out of Dean's space. 

"Yep, I know the who of the who dun it," Stiles said waving his hand in a beckoning motion back over to his computer. "Come look at this.”

Dean crossed the room, heart still thundering in his chest, leaning over Stiles’ shoulder to peer with him at the computer screen. It seemed to be some sort of social networking site, Dean flicked his gaze to the top but didn’t recognize the logo or name. Stiles was scrolling through messages that turned Dean’s stomach to read. Ranging from the relatively unimaginative suggestions to _just kill yourself_ to incredibly detailed and demeaning comments, every single one seemed designed to hurt.

“How many are there?” Dean asked.

“A hundred twelve. And that’s not all," Stiles said. He clicked to a different window, this one was Facebook, and started scrolling through even more messages all with the same content as the ones before. These had attached names and faces; Dean recognized some of the kids they’d questioned at the school and others as victims.

“Whose account is this?”

Stiles clicked on the home page, sitting back as it loaded to reveal the tiny kid from yesterday that had reminded Dean of Sam. Quiet, bitter, and shrewdly smart. Dennis.

“Son of a bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (But honestly, I am sorry, and I do love you all to pieces. Legit.)
> 
> I don't know when the next will be up but I'll try to keep you guys posted. As always you can stalk me on Tumblr (which I'm too lazy to link right now but if you go to literally any other chapter/story it's at the end or you can just search little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com) 
> 
> Peace.


	5. Chapter Five

"So now that we know the who," Dean said swirling a fry thoughtfully in a dollop of ketchup, "we need to figure out the how." 

Stiles nodded munching on his own fry. He was surprisingly hungry today, but he supposed that was to be expected after he slept for a solid nine hours. "Well, it has to be an object of some sort. He's not a supernatural." 

"What makes you say that?" Dean asked, a tone of reproach coloring his words. "He could be." 

Stiles shrugged. "He doesn't have that vibe." 

"That _vibe_?" 

"Yeah, you know the vibe," Stiles said waving his hand in a way that was meant to encompass the entirety of the word. "The whole I'm An Evil Creature vibe." 

Dean just stared at him nonplussed. "They do not have vibes." 

"Yes, they do. And Dennis didn't have one. Ergo, he's human. Ergo, it's an object. Ergo, he probably keeps it with him at all times. Ergo, it must be small. Ergo-"

Dean held out a hand, "Please stop saying ergo, you're giving me a complex." 

"Sorry." 

The table fell silent for a brief moment as Stiles held his tongue. "I knew all you needed was some good sleep," Dean said leaning back in his seat. 

Stiles waved a dismissive hand not wanting to give it much thought. Unbidden his mind drifted back to the feel of Dean's lips against his and he felt a slight flush darken his neck. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Can we focus please? Obviously we have to talk to Dennis again, right?"

"Obviously," Dean replied. "But after food." 

Stiles nodded in agreement, reaching for another fry. "After food." 

* * *

The stable was lacking its usual bustling activity when they arrived, possibly due to the late morning hour. Those that were just now trickling in still looked as though they hadn't quite woken up all the way, but were reporting for their duties regardless. The few still around that had no doubt shown up at the crack of dawn were readily identifiable by how accomplished they looked, having already done their chores and exercised their respective equines all before lunch time.

Dennis was of the latter group though he was still working in the last stall on the right, methodically sifting through sawdust to remove any traces of manure large enough to be trapped by the rake in his hands.

Stiles leaned against the stall door, crossing his arms and adopting a stern look. "So, Dennis," he said not feeling the least bit sorry when the other boy startled a bit, "push anyone to suicide lately?" 

Dean nudged him roughly in the back but Stiles ignored him, focusing instead on the way Dennis' expressions cycled through confused, surprised, worried, then settled on carefully blank. 

"I'm sorry," he said. "What?" 

Dean cleared his throat like he was about to say something, but Stiles cut him off before he even started. 

"I said, push anyone to suicide lately? We looked into your social media accounts. Found some interesting stuff." 

Dennis set the rake aside, crossing his arms to mirror Stiles. "Oh yeah? Then you would know that I'm not the one pushing people to go die." 

Stiles gave an assenting nod. "True. But you're not dead and they are." 

"So what?" 

"It's suspicious is what." 

"Okay," Dean said, interjecting and moving physically between Stiles and Dennis with his hands out in a placating gesture. "Let's all breathe and take a moment. No one is accusing anyone of anything."

"No, I am," Stiles said. "This is an accusation."

"What kind of agents are you?" Dennis asked, eyes narrowing.

"The federal kind," Dean stated firmly nudging Stiles behind him.

Dennis didn't look particularly convinced, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Aren't you supposed to take me to the station to accuse me?"

"Do you want us to?" Stiles asked. "Because I'll drag you there myself-"

"No, you won't," Dean interrupted giving Stiles a solid shove back. "We'll ask our questions here and you'll answer them, understand?" 

Dennis glanced between the two of them for a moment before sighing heavily. "I haven't pushed anyone to suicide," he said fiddling with his ring. "If you looked into my social media accounts, which, hey, sounds like an invasion of privacy, then you'll know that I'm not exactly popular with my peer group." 

"You don't think it's odd that all the people sending you those messages committed suicide themselves?" Dean asked. 

Dennis shrugged, dropping his hand from his ring. "Maybe they decided to take their own advice." 

Stiles stepped around Dean, catching Dennis' gaze. "What's that?" 

"What's what?" 

"That ring you keep playing with." 

Dennis absently touched it again. "It's a ring." 

"No shit, dumbass," Stiles said. "Why don't you let me see it?" 

As expected Dennis immediately shook his head and pulled his hands away, shoving them in his pockets. "No." 

Stiles thinned his mouth into a line and stepped forward. "Unfortunately, that wasn't really a question," he said taking swift steps as Dennis backed up and reaching out. 

Dennis pulled away then shoved toward Stiles with his hands up. Stiles tried to jerk back, surprised, but Dennis made contact. His hands grazed Stiles skin and panic erupted. For a split second Stiles couldn't breathe, couldn't pull in air, couldn't exhale. His heart pounded, achingly hard and sharply beating against his sternum. Stiles couldn't hear past the ringing in his hears, echos of words sounding through the stall. 

Ragged breaths echoed in his ears, air whispering down his neck, his name floating on the breeze. S _tiles. It belongs to you but others use it more. What is it?_

The lights dimmed and he could hear shuffling footsteps. For a split second he was back in the basement, Nogitsune taunting him, leg shackled to the floor and burning in pain. 

His hand brushed Dennis' coat as he fell but his fingers wouldn't close to grasp it. 

Stiles hit the ground hard, fingers sinking into dirt and sawdust as he gasped for air. Distantly he heard Dean yelling, a muffled thud, then running steps. He tried to straighten up. Tried to turn, but his body wouldn't respond. The ground swam beneath him, the air sharp in his lungs. 

_What is it, Stiles?_

It was like being thrown into the middle of his worst panic attack. 

No. He was thrown into the middle of a panic attack. 

With that thought Stiles drew in a harsh breath, sound and light surging back. 

Dean gasped for air next to him, curled into the side of the stall. 

Stiles ignored him, focusing on his own breaths and counting slowly. There was no reason to panic. There was no danger. There was no dream. No Nogitsune. Just a boy with a haunted object that hijacked people's emotions. 

One. 

He could deal with this. It would dissipate. All he had to do was breathe. 

Two.

First thing was breathing. Second thing was heart rate.

Three. 

Breathe. In. Out. Ignore the rags pooling in the corner of his vision.

Four. 

Third thing was relaxing the muscles. 

Five.

In. Out. Relax. 

Dean was still panicking. Stiles scrambled over as soon as he could move grabbing Dean's hands from where they were sealed over his ears.

"Dean," Stiles rasped squeezing his hands hard. Dean's eyes snapped open, wide and huge and scared. Stiles wondered briefly if Dean had ever had a panic attack before. He didn't think so, felt the hunter was the kind of man to hold too tightly to his emotions and control. Hell, that made this all the more frightening for him. 

"Dean, look at me. Focus on my voice. You need to slow your breathing." 

Dean just stared blankly through him, chest heaving, each breath catching as he listed to the side. It was terrifying, and Stiles felt the last vestiges of panic rear up in him again. Trying to root deep in his chest, heart still pounding and breaths shallow. He needed Dean to stop hyperventilating. 

"Dean!" Stiles sharpened his tone, imitating John to the best of his ability. Dean tensed even more, but his gaze met Stiles'. "Slow your breathing," Stiles said keeping his voice commanding. "Focus on your heart beat, focus on slowing it down. Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out. Focus on relaxing. Your neck. Your arms. Your legs. Breathe in." 

Moment by moment, Dean relaxed, breaths slowing. Stiles settled his hand over Dean's heart, nodding and keeping up a string of steady instructions until they both slumped to the side. Dean's hair was damp with sweat as he let his head fall back against the stall and Stiles could feel droplets of his own slipping down the small of his back. For several long minuets they simply breathed into the silence settled between them. 

"What the fuck was that?" Dean eventually murmured, still sounding subdued. Stiles laughed, probably harder than appropriate. 

He pushed himself to his feet, grimacing at the bits of dirt, sawdust, and probably manure clinging to his clothes and hands. "That was a panic attack," he said offering Dean a hand up. "Courtesy of our neighborhood murderer with a cursed ring." 

* * *

"So now we know the who and the how," Stiles said.

They were back at the motel, having retreated to the place when they couldn't find Dennis after their mutual freak outs at the stable, but had yet to exit the car. Dean was still trying to manage his swirling emotions, shaky from what was, apparently, a panic attack. No fun there. Nor was he too pleased with the way Stiles had handled the situation. 

Dean shot Stiles a glare that just felt meager. "You antagonized him into attacking us."

Stiles shrugged.

"That was reckless."

Another shrug.

"Stiles."  

"Dean." Measured. Steady. Without an ounce of chagrin.   

Dean sighed kneading at his forehead before giving up and just leaning against the steering wheel. Clearly getting Stiles to rest had other consequences in addition to making him a chatter box. Consequences of the impulsivity kind. Really, the kiss that morning should have been a clue and not just mutually enjoyed. "Okay," Dean said more to the Impala than Stiles. "We need a game plan because you just sent Dennis running and he could be doing anything to anyone anywhere."

"He's not gonna run. Or at least he's not gonna go far," Stiles said biting at his thumb nail while his leg bounced practically shaking the whole car. Without giving it much thought Dean reached over and clapped a hand on Stiles' knee. Stiles went still at the touch. 

"We don't know that." 

"He's just a kid," Stiles said staring at Dean's hand. "A murdering, psychopathic kid, but a kid all the same. He's scared. I've seen his type. He's gonna stick to what he knows." 

"His type?" Dean asked perplexed. 

"Egotistical jerks who use dangerous things they don't understand to hurt people who wronged them." 

The tone gave Dean a pause. He squeezed Stiles' knee. "You're not talking about yourself, are you?" 

Stiles swept his gaze from Dean's hand to Dean's face. "No," he said sounding insulted. 

"Good," Dean said drawing his hand away from Stiles and back to the safe grounds of the steering wheel and fighting the urge to clear his throat. "So who are you talking about?" 

Stiles chewed on his nail some more, answering around the digit. "His name was Matt." 

"Was?" 

"Yeah." 

"What happened to him?"

Stiles slouched in his seat. "He drowned. Was drowned." 

"Was drowned?" Dean repeated slowly, implications sinking in. "By who?" 

Stiles frowned, casting his gaze around the car but never looking directly at Dean. "A hunter," he said.

"Why?" 

"Because he used a dangerous thing he didn't understand to hurt people who wronged him," Stiles said exasperated. "Do we have to talk about it? How about instead we focus on finding Dennis."

Dean sighed, propping his elbow on the door and adding Matt to the mental list of things Stiles wouldn't, but probably should, talk about. He didn't remember a Matt in anything Bobby had told him about Stiles' time in Beacon Hills, but it was hardly a exhaustive history.

"Okay. You're right. Dennis is a kid," Dean said putting the Impala in gear once more. "Probably scared. And scared kids go where they feel safe."

"Home."

* * *

It was only ten minute drive to Dennis' address. Stiles and Dean let the drive elapse in silence, each watching out their respective window or windshield. Stiles kept giving Dean, who seemed unreasonably tense, slanted looks. The hunter kept both hands clenched around the steering wheel, never so much as glancing Stiles' way.

Dean pulled off on the side of the road and slid the Impala into park across the street from Dennis' quaint looking blue and white house. There was a small porch with a roof topped with two windows, one of which was open with the curtains billowing in the slight breeze. 

"Wait here," Dean said and Stiles internally scoffed. As if.

"What are you gonna do?"

Dean finally glanced at him. "I'm gonna do my job. You're going to sit here and like it."

"How?" Stiles asked pushing the issue. There was no good way to approach Dennis here. Not when a simple touch could spell potential disaster in numerous ways. "What's your game plan? You gonna just punch him in the face?"

"We don't really have many options here, Stiles," Dean said. "Not since you scared him off."

"I think he scared us," Stiles countered. "I _know_ he scared you."

Dean twisted in his seat, mouth tight and jabbing a finger in Stiles' direction. "We're not discussing that." 

"No, we're discussing how it's going to happen again if you approach Dennis yourself." 

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Stay here," he growled and Stiles held his hands up in apparent consent, saying nothing more as Dean exited the car. He rummaged around in the trunk for a few moments before making his way up the walkway to Dennis' front door. Evidently it was locked as Dean gave a quick look around before dropping to his knee to pick it. Stiles watched quietly a moment then glanced up at the windows over the porch. The curtain fluttered open and Dennis walked past, visible for the slightest second. 

Stiles waited until Dean slipped inside before pushing his door open and stepping out. He studied the house for a moment then confidently made his way to the porch. Climbing up on the banister was easy, and from there it was a relatively simple endeavor to jump, catch the porch roof, and vault himself up. It wouldn't have been simple some time ago, but a lot had changed. He was reminded vividly for a moment of attempting to sneak into Scott's house all those months ago on the fateful night that was truly the catalyst for all of this. 

Shaking away the memories, Stiles crept forward peeking into the room and pleased to see Dennis at the doorway sufficiently distracted by what was most likely Dean moving up the stairs. Calling gently on his spark to dampen the sound of his motions Stiles reached forward to push the window up all the way and crawled inside. 

Once in he scanned the room noticing another ring on Dennis' desk. Plainer than the one Dennis wore now but similar in appearance. After a second of contemplation Stiles pocketed it and moved forward just as Dennis shut his door and locked it. Stiles halted, waiting for Dennis to turn around and grinning a little at the reaction he got. 

"Oh, Jesus! How the, how'd you get in here?" Dennis asked pressed back against the door. "Where's..." He trailed off glancing over his should as if just realizing the noises he heard were most definitely Dean. 

"Where are your parents?" Stiles asked in lieu of answering. 

Dennis furrowed his brows. "Work," he said. "So what?" 

Stiles nodded. "Just making sure you haven't hurt them," he said taking a step forward. "You understand you can't keep this up? It has to stop." 

"I just, I just wanted them to feel the way they made me feel," Dennis said. "That's all." 

"I know." Stiles took another step. "But that doesn't change the fact that you killed people, Dennis." 

"I'd do it again," Dennis said defiantly raising his chin. "They deserved it. You, though, you're just collateral." 

Stiles reacted on instinct, better prepared this time for when Dennis rushed at him. He caught Dennis' arm, fingers inches from his face and a little shocked at himself. Dennis gaped at him, eyes wide in surprise. Stiles squeezed Dennis' wrist, tightening his grip until he felt bone grind and Dennis winced. Stiles twisted Dennis' arm and reached out to pull the ring from Dennis' finger. 

Fear flashed in Dennis' eyes as Stiles rolled the ring between his fingers and held it up for Dennis to see as he purposefully pressed his fingertips against Dennis' skin. 

"You will feel guilt," Stiles said. "Everyday. It will define you. All of your choices will center around it, and you will spend the rest of your life trying to make amends." 

Dennis wrenched his arm away and Stiles let him go just as Dean swung the door open, firearm at the ready. He surveyed the room, jaw clenching when he saw Stiles, before casting his gaze to Dennis on the floor. 

"What happened to him?" Dean asked, lowering his handgun. 

Stiles slid his hands into his pocket then pulled out the ring and held it up for Dean to see. "This and a few choice words." 

Dean's face contorted into something impressively unimpressed for a moment before striding forward with a stern, "You shouldn't touch those things." Swiping a sock off Dennis' dresser Dean carefully plucked the ring from Stiles' hand and rolled it up in a ball. "And what did I say about staying in the car?" 

"Mustn't have heard you," Stiles replied absently regarding Dennis with something that almost felt like pity.

Dean glanced between them. "What'd you use on him?" he asked. 

"Guilt." 

* * *

 Jordan sighed, pushing himself away from his desk and kneading his eyes in the hopes that it might just make his head ache a little less. It was a far from successful endeavor, but Jorden kept his eyes closed just a little bit longer anyway as he leaned back in his chair. 

Someone cleared their throat; Jordan nearly toppling over backwards in surprise. There was a gruff looking man in a suit at his desk for some reason with a manilla folder. He didn't fit the suit attire, looked more like he belonged in jeans and a flannel than anything that might be mistaken for professional white collar garb. 

"Uh, can I help you?" Jordan asked finally remembering his manners, though he was still questioning how the man had made it all the way to his desk. 

"The deputy out front said you may be able to help me," the man said fishing his wallet out of his suit pocket. "Agent Warren." 

Jordan heaved an internal sigh. FBI. Of course. "And what can I help you with, Agent Warren?" 

"I'm looking into a missing person's case," Agent Warren said tapping his folder on Jordan's desk. "I need more information." 

"Easy enough," Jordan said turning to his computer and pulling the keyboard closer to him. "Name?" 

"Mieczyslaw Stilinski."


	6. Chapter Six

John scanned the room carefully as he entered, quickly spotting and correcting his course to head to Deputy Parrish's desk. The young deputy appeared tired, dark circles under his eyes clearly visible as he leaned back in his chair with a long sigh. John waited for a moment before clearing his throat to get the young man's attention.

"Uh, can I help you?" Parrish said after a long, almost awkward pause. 

"The deputy out front said you may be able to help me," John said fishing his wallet out of his suit pocket and flashing his FBI badge. "Agent Warren." 

Something like exasperation flickered across the deputy's face before he expression smoothed out into pure professional courtesy. "And what can I help you with, Agent Warren?" 

"I'm looking into a missing person's case," John said tapping the folder he held on Parrish's desk. "I need more information." 

"Easy enough," the deputy said turning to his computer and pulling the keyboard closer to him. "Name?" 

John schooled his countenance into polite interest. "Mieczyslaw Stilinski."

As expected the deputy froze for a brief moment before seeming to gather himself. John didn't miss the glance he gave the sheriff's office or the way he drew his hands back from the keyboard. 

"I wasn't aware anyone was looking into the Stilinski case," he said. "I especially didn't know the FBI was involved." 

John inclined his head. "I wouldn't expect you to know." 

"Why are you looking into it?" Parrish asked. His tone was almost confrontational, John thought. Or protective.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that with you, Deputy." 

Parrish raised his eyebrows. "And I'm not at liberty to hand over case files without cause, sir," he said adding the last part firmly. 

John stared at him, biding his options and eventually deciding this deputy wasn't going to go down easily. And if John pushed too much without reason, he wouldn't put it past Parrish to insist on verifying John's credentials. Which wouldn't be too big of an issue with Bobby, but John hardly wanted the other hunter to know what he was doing in Beacon Hills. 

"Stilinski is a person of interest in a homicide case." 

"He's been missing for months," Parrish said. "How do you know it's him." 

"Description matches and witnesses identified him by name. It's a distinctive name, don't you think?" 

Parrish nodded slowly. "And the FBI is involved because..."

"Because the man was murdered on federal property." 

"And you think Stiles did it?" Parrish asked, implications clear. If John said yes, then getting any information was going to be next to impossible. 

"No," John said. "But I think he knows who did." 

Parrish stared at him, weighing, measuring, perhaps finding John wanting. But after a long moment he pulled his keyboard in close and started to type.

* * *

"So now what?" Stiles asked taking a deep breath of fresh air and feeling like layers of stress were falling off his shoulders. 

They had let Dennis upstairs to stew in what would probably be months or years of existential guilt and remorse until he learned to heal or break free of the ring's influence, and the hunt was officially over. Case solved. No more suicides.

"We head back to the motel and put this somewhere safe," Dean said waving the sock encased ring for emphasis. "And we wait for Dad to come back. In the meantime we can look for new hunts." 

"What are we going to do with the ring, you know, like, long-term?" Stiles asked surreptitiously pressing against the ring in his pocket. It felt heavy, like it weighed more than it should, but didn't feel altogether dangerous. He wasn't sure what had possessed him to switch the rings out before Dean had come in Dennis' room. A poorly thought out impulse, perhaps. Or a half-formed idea at the back of his mind. 

"Give it to Dad or Bobby," Dean said tucking the ring carefully in his pocket as they reached the car. "They'll know what to do about it." 

The ride back to the motel was made mostly in silence. Dean tried to call John and ended up leaving a voicemail to let him know the hunt was over. To his surprise, Stiles found himself nodding off on the way, head bouncing against the glass of the window as his eyes slipped shut before he jerked himself awake again. He hoped Dean hadn't noticed, but knew it was likely a lost cause given the glances the hunter sent his way as they parked and exited the Impala. 

Once inside the motel, Stiles made a beeline for the bathroom splashing cold water on his face in an attempt to wake himself up. When he came out a few minutes later Dean was sat at the table waiting for him. 

"Adrenaline drop. Probably from the panic attacks," Dean said quietly. "I'm tired too." 

Stiles nodded and flopped on the bed. He had no desire to sleep. Could still hear the Nogitsune's voice in his head if he thought about it. But.

Dean lay down beside him, a pleasant warmth along his side. "I'm still pissed at you for earlier," Dean said. "And for not staying the car. You could have gotten yourself killed." 

Stiles shuffled around onto his stomach turning his head to face Dean. "When will you trust me to take care of myself?" he asked. 

Dean huffed. "When I see some evidence that you even know how," he retorted. 

"I'm not dead yet," Stiles pointed out with a yawn, stifling it with a hand. 

"Go the fuck to sleep, Stiles," Dean said, something like fondness coloring his tone adjusting to get more comfortable himself. Stiles yawned again. "We'll talk more after you sleep." 

"I'm not tired," Stiles mumbled even as his eyes slipped closed. He shifted closer to Dean feeling the other man curl an arm around him protectively. It didn't take long for him to drift off afterwards. 

* * *

To Dean's surprise Stiles fell asleep easily, slipping under and soon softly snoring in Dean's ear. Dean himself, however, lay awake. He hadn't been lying when he told Stiles was tired too, but, for some reason, his eyes remained stubbornly open and his brain stubbornly active. Replaying the last day over and over Dean felt his stomach progressively tighten with anxiety as he thought back to Stiles' foolhardy actions. And Dean couldn't fault him, it was a cold day in hell when someone would have described Dean as cautious, but, well, it has been a couple cold days in hell recently. 

And Dean really didn't want to examine too closely the gut wrenching fear he'd felt walking into that room and seeing Stiles with Dennis. Or the way that, even when he'd been panicking, half that panic had been about _Stiles._

Stiles shifted closer in his sleep, warm breaths puffing against Dean's neck in a significantly distracting manner that had Dean even more awake as he stared at the ceiling of the motel room. 

Eventually the itchiness building under Dean's skin reached a breaking point and he found himself slipping out from beneath Stiles and then watching Stiles unhappily resettle himself without waking far longer than any sane man should watch another person. Especially if that person was sleeping. 

The fresh air outside felt good in his lungs as he drew in a deep breath. He didn't go far, settling down at a rickety picnic table at what passed as an outside eating area. With a heavy sigh and leaned back on the tabletop letting his head hang off the edge. It caused all his blood to rush to his head, but that was better than other options.

The change in location, however, did little to help his brain switch off or change paths. He as still consumed with thoughts of panic and reckless idiots who liked to pretend they were fine even when they weren't. Dean dragged his hands over his face before reaching for his phone and scrolling down to a number he hadn't even contemplated calling in some time.

Sam answered on the seventh ring. "Someone better be dying." 

Dean winced. "No." 

"Dean, I was in class." 

"Well, how would I know?" Dean replied pulling his phone away from his ear for a moment to check the time and make a mental note. 

Sam sighed, long and heavy. Dean could picture him pinching his nose in exasperation. "What do you need?" 

"I, I wanted to...talk," Dean said lamely. 

"You," Sam said, disbelief clear in his tone, "want to talk?" 

Dean closed his eyes, leaning his head even further back and wishing he could disappear into the Earth. "Fuck off, Sam. I'll just hang up." 

"No!" Sam said and Dean blinked in surprise. "No. Uh, what, what do you want to talk about?" 

"Dad and I have been kinda hunting with someone," Dean hedged. 

"Okay." 

"And well, they're kind of..."

"Do you think they're dangerous?" Sam asked sounding worried. 

"No, no," Dean said helpless to stop the smile on his face. "No, they're pretty great." 

"Oh," Sam said. Then. " _Oh_. You like them." 

"No," Dean reflexively said. "I mean, I don't know. I can't figure it out. He just, he confuses the hell outta me, man." 

"He?" 

Dean pressed his lips together firmly, cursing himself. It wasn't that Sam didn't know, because he did, but it was just that. Something Sam knew. Something that they'd never discussed because they'd never had to discuss it. Sam knew and that was all that mattered. 

"Yeah," Dean finally muttered. 

"Does Dad know?" 

Dean snorted and that was enough of an answer for that. 

"Right. Dumb question." There was a slight pause then, "Does he know?"

Dean opened his mouth to answer, maybe, and stopped as his phone beeped. Pulling it away from his ear to check who was calling he swore quietly. "I have to go. Dad's calling."

"Dean, you don't have," Sam started but Dean cut him off.

"Dad's on the other line," he said. "I have to go."

"Call me back?"

"Later, Sam. Thanks." 

Dad's voice was terse when Dean answered after the fourth beep. "Dean. Took you long enough." 

"I was sleeping," Dean lied. "Did you get my message?" 

"I did. Good job. Keep ahold of that ring, I'll take care of it when I get back." 

"When will that be?" 

"Couple more days," Dad said. "Something came up. You and Stiles stay put." 

"Yes, sir," Dean replied knowing better than to ask what, exactly, came up. 

"Good. I'll see you boys in a few days." 

"Okay," Dean said into empty air, the resounding the click of Dad hanging up echoing in his ear. 

Sighing heavily Dean pressed his phone against his face, eyes closed as he just breathed jumping slightly when the bench creaked. Stiles sat next to him something unreadable in his expression. 

"Nightmare?" Dean asked and Stiles shook his head. 

"My dad's nurse called," Stiles said. "He's in the hospital again. They think he may be septic." 

"Shit," Dean said because that sounded bad. Dean was no doctor but sepsis was dangerous even for relatively healthy people. He moved to sit up somehow ending up sitting in front of Stiles. "Do we need to go-" 

"No," Stiles said shaking his head slowly. "No, uh, I got in touch with the social worker and she's going to keep me updated." 

"Stiles." 

"I'm fine, really," Stiles even as he swiped his sleeves over his eyes. "It's...this is his third infection in three months." 

"This has happened before?" 

"Yeah. Pneumonia the last two times." Stiles drew in a shuddering breath. "But he pulled through then and he'll pull through now."  

"Stiles, if you want to go." 

"No, Dean, really it's fine. And I don't want to talk about it anymore," Stiles said gathering himself. "I'm hungry. We should get food." 

Dean grinned even as his heart ached for the way Stiles just pulled up his walls. "I can always do food." 

* * *

John knocked on the door before stepping back to leave polite distance. He heard nothing but silence for a few moments then thundering footsteps on stairs. It was a nice house, sage green with white trim and an impressive front porch. John scanned what he could of the house through the windows as he waited. 

A young man opened the door, stance almost defensive as he surveyed John quietly. 

"Agent Warren," John said flashing his badge and he swore the boy's eyes flashed before hardening into a glare. 

"Can I help you, Agent?" the boy asked tone just this side of scathing. It was noteworthy, John thought, that everyone in this town seemed particularly suspicious of the FBI. Or, perhaps, just outsiders in general. 

"You Scott McCall?" 

"Yes," Scott said expression expectant. 

John nodded. "I just have a few questions for you regarding a Mieczyslaw Stilinski."

"I'm afraid I don't know who that is. Have a nice day, Agent," Scott said beginning to shut the door.

John caught the door with his hand raising and unimpressed eyebrow. "Perhaps you only know him as Stiles then," he said pushing the door open and walking past a shocked Scott. "Let's talk." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A filler chapter you say? What's that?


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is struggling to deal with what happened in Boston, Dean's growing more and more worried as he watches Stiles spiral, and John won't admit it but he's not sure what to do with Stiles. Simultaneously, the three work to solve the mystery of strange happenings at a horse stable in small Virginian town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, I hate this chapter so much, but here we go.

Stiles tilted his head back, neck straining just a bit, as he stared up at the barely visible stars shining in the sky. With all the light from the small city, there wasn't a lot to see but the brightest still shown through. The air was was warm around him, with the faintest hints of crispness in the breeze. Stiles blew out a long sigh and glanced down at the ring dancing between his fingers. He hadn't know when he swapped the rings why he'd kept the real one, only that he felt it necessary. Now, two days later, he had a concrete plan in mind. The only problem was Dean. 

Gravel crunched underfoot behind him and Stiles deftly slipped the ring in his pocket before falling back against the table once more to look at Dean with his head leaned all the way back. 

"Gonna give yourself a neck cramp if you keep looking at me like that," Dean commented and Stiles grinned. 

"It'd be worth it," Stiles quipped back but straightened his posture all the same, continuing on as Dean rounded the table to sit next to him. "We should do something tonight." 

Dean arched an eyebrow at him. "Like what?"

"I dunno," Stiles said fidgeting with his fingers. It was times like these that the stray thought of taking up smoking crossed his mind just to have something to do with his hands. Then his father's stern voice always seemed to follow those thoughts with a lecture of how it was a bad idea. And so Stiles fidgeted. "Just something other than sparring or drills." 

"Dad said to lay low and wait for him," Dean said with a faint grimace. 

"So we order food and sit around a motel when we're not beating the shit out of each other?" Stiles asked. "Come on, man, I need to be occupied. Occupy me." 

If Stiles wasn't mistaken there was a faint blush on the back of Dean's neck. He cleared his throat. "A bar?" 

Stiles rolled his eyes. "How about a club?" 

Dean's eyebrows climbed. "A club?" he repeated. 

"A club," Stiles confirmed with a sharp nod. 

Dean stared at him for a few minutes more then rolled his shoulders as if preparing for battle. "Okay. Club it is." 

* * *

Stiles had been a little surprised at Dean's lack of resistance in first agreeing to accompany Stiles to a club and then going as far as letting Stiles pick the venue. He'd been more surprised at Dean's lack of comment when they entered the club and found themselves surrounded with men, men, and more men. It wasn't the only gay club in town, but by all accounts it was one of the more popular ones. In other words it was the perfect place to lose himself for a little while. And since Dean obviously wouldn't be joining Stiles on the dance floor, at least not at first and Stiles would focus on convincing him later, it was the perfect place to lose Dean. 

So he made his way to the bar shadowed by the hunter, knocked back a few shots, and asked Dean to dance. The laugh and easy refusal was a relief. Stiles smiled and slipped away, melting into the throng of dancers and checking the time. He was early, had fifteen minutes left until it was time. Keeping by Dean was easy to start, making sure he faded in and out of the crowd. Dean kept a watchful eye on him from the bar, heavy gaze tracking Stiles as he moved amongst the others to the sway and thrill of the music. 

With two minutes to spare he slipped further into the crowd, no longer dancing, simply passing through. The music faded to background noise in his mind as he scanned the faces around him. Laughing, smiling, admiring looks, it was almost surreal. Like being in another dimension. 

The back hall leading to the restrooms was all but deserted aside from the one couple having sex in the corner and the lone figure leaning against the wall across from the ladies' room. Stiles approached slowly paying no mind to the girls in the corner and focused solely on the woman by herself. She tracked his movements, a slow smile spreading across her lips as he came to a halt a few feet away. 

"You're late," she said, accent lilting her words. 

Stiles said nothing, simply raising one brow. Bella sighed pushing away from the wall to take a couple steps towards him. 

"Did you bring it?" 

Stiles regarded her closely for a moment before sliding the ring out of his pocket and holding it up for Bella to see. She eyed it hungrily before flicking her gaze back to him. After a moment she reached out for it, but Stiles pulled it back. 

"Do you have what we agreed on?" he asked.

Bela tsked lightly, lowering her hand to draw her phone from her pocket. "Account number?" 

Reciting the number was easy. Checking his own phone for the transfer was easy. Handing over the cursed ring was easy. 

It shouldn't have been. Stiles should feel guilty. Disgusted at himself maybe. Definitely disappointed in his choices. 

But all he felt was relieved. 

"Do you have any idea what you just sold me?" Bella said, cocking her head to the side. "It's easily worth three times what I paid you." 

"To the right buyer perhaps," Stiles replied. "But I got what I needed." 

Bella stared at him for a short moment before squaring her shoulders. "Well, pleasure doing business with you." 

Stiles nodded stepping to the side so she had a clear path to leave. She considered him silently then strode past, disappearing into the crowd without another look back. Stiles cradled his phone in his hands and couldn't help but stare at his balance. 

One problem of many solved. At least for now. 

Time to find Dean. 

* * *

Dean didn't quite know what he was doing. Clubs were not his thing. Bars? Yes. Clubs? Not really. Too dark, too crowded, too damn loud, too obnoxious music. Stiles, though, was thriving in any sense of the word. Five minutes in and the other boy had downed three shots and disappeared into the crowd of writhing bodies. 

On the other hand, Dean was still nursing his beer stationed by the bar for easy access to more alcohol and as much distance between him and the mass of bodies. He was a little concerned that he'd occasionally lose sight of Stiles, but he was also more than a little heartened by the fact that Stiles was clearly doing so well. Every few minutes he'd catch sight of Stiles in the crowd, not too far away and blending in seamlessly with the others as he swayed and moved with the heavy beat of the songs. 

When five minutes went by without so much as a glimpse of Stiles in the crowd Dean felt the beginnings of something like panic begin to work through him. At the ten minute mark Dean finally surrendered his seat and started the circling the floor. He made it all the way around stopping a few times to extricate himself from overly eager dancers, but ultimately failed to find Stiles. Fishing his phone out swiping down to Stiles' name and tapping it with impatient. He had to hold it to his ear and listen closely to even hear it ringing. He wasn't holding out much hope that Stiles would answer; doubted Stiles would be able to hear his own phone in this stupid noise they claimed was music. 

Secretly Dean was enjoying the beat just a bit. 

With a sigh Dean dropped his phone back in his pocket making his way back over to the bar and deciding to make another circle when a hand landed on his shoulder. 

"Hey!" Stiles shouted with a grin. "You finally joining the rest of us?" 

Dean grimaced shaking his head raising his voice to be heard. "I already told you, man. I don't dance." 

"And like I said," Stiles replied swiping Dean's beer and taking a long pull. "Suit yourself." 

Dean stepped closer speaking into Stiles' ear. "Where'd you disappear to?" 

"Bathroom," Stiles said with disgust. "Word of advice: Don't."

Dean let out a noise of acknowledgement and went to draw away before Stiles caught his jacket and stepped even closer. "Sure I can't convince you to dance?" he asked lips brushing Dean's ear. 

Dean swallowed actually entertaining the idea for a brief moment before shaking his head with a laugh to cover his flutter of nerves. Stiles smirked at him like he knew but said nothing more melting away into the throng of dancers. Dean tracked his movements as he nursed his drink. Stiles danced with the other easily, trusting in a way that threw Dean off as Stiles allowed yet another man to slide up behind him, bodies rolling together to the beat of the music. 

"If you don't take him home someone else will."

The words were barely discernible over the blaring songs, but Dean caught most of it, spinning to face the bartender. "What?"

"Your friend," she said nodding generally in Stiles' direction and raising her eyebrows at Dean. "He'll be going home with someone tonight. Best make sure it's you."

"I'm not," Dean started. "I mean, we're not..." He trailed off because, well, they _were_ weren't they? He twisted around to look at Stiles again, lithe and comfortable with another man at his back. Goddamn. "Whiskey, please," he ordered hoarsely. 

The bartender just smiled and poured him his drink. "Go get 'im, tiger."   

Dean knocked back his shot before striding across the floor. He crossed the distance and placed heavy hand on the man's shoulder before drawing back hard. The other man rounded with a sharp protest that died quickly once he took in Dean's reproachfully arched eyebrow. Stiles smirked behind him, a full grin stretching as the man raised his hands and backed away. Stiles slid up to Dean easily, one hand along Dean's neck and the other at his waist. 

"Decided to join me after all?" 

Dean's answer was lips pressed to Stiles', cutting short any other remarks. Stiles relaxed into it immediately, yielding control to Dean, wrapping his arms around Dean's neck. Dean pulled him closer, deepening the kiss and hearing Stiles' low groan in response. They parted, remaining close, forehead touching forehead. 

"Wanna get out of here?" Dean asked. 

 Stiles shook his head, leaning in for another kiss. 

"What then?" Dean said after a moment, hoping the answer wasn't actual dancing.

Stiles grinned entwining their fingers and tugging Dean towards the bar. "More shots." 

* * *

They stumbled their way back to the motel stealing kisses in the shadows of alleyways and laughing when one or the other tripped over the uneven sidewalk. More than a few people out and about at the late, or early, hour gave them disapproving glares for their carrying on, but neither Dean nor Stiles paid such looks much heed.

At the door to their motel Dean made an honest effort at kissing Stiles senseless while also trying to unlock the door. It was a mostly failed effort that only concluded once Stiles' peals of laughter interrupted Dean's efforts at kissing and thus he was able to focus almost entirely on unlocking the door. Stiles' hands proved a formidable distraction but were ultimately overcome by Dean's sheer willpower.  

Falling through the suddenly open door Stiles laughed again as he was unceremoniously shoved into the wall by Dean flailing for his own balance. Dean righted himself moving forward to pin Stiles against the wall and thoroughly ravage his mouth once more. The nightstand closest to the door rattled, the lamp tipping precariously, as they bumped into it.

Stiles caught the lamp, struggling to set it upright as Dean continued his assault on Stiles' neck, running his nose along Stiles' throat and nibbling at his ear. Stiles let out a strangled moan at that finally setting the damn lamp down and getting his hands back on Dean. He shoved Dean's coat off throwing it somewhere to the side to land with a muffled thud on the floor. Immediately his hands were slipping up under Dean's shirt, cool fingers flitting over warm skin and leaving tingling trails of goosebumps in their wake.

Dean couldn't help but shiver at the touch and seek to reciprocate. He grabbed the hem of Stiles' shirt pulling it up and freezing when Stiles' hands grabbed his wrists. 

"I have to piss," Stiles murmured against his lips. "Be right back." And then Stiles was sliding out from between him and the wall, striding to the bathroom and having to catch his balance a little against the door frame. 

Dean let out a long breath flopping onto his back against the door and staring up at the ceiling. The door to the bathroom clicked shut, and Dean was abruptly aware of his own pounding heart and the heat of his blood in his veins. The last few minutes replayed in his mind in high definition followed closely by inner scolding that sounded suspiciously like Bobby. 

Stepping outside seemed like a logical solution.

Dean sucked in the cool air, taking several deep breaths before digging out his phone and dialing Sam. That also seemed like a logical solution. His brother picked up on the fourth ring sounding half asleep, and Dean just spit it out, "I'm about to do something stupid." 

Sam was silent for a moment before remarking blandly, "Since when do you acknowledge that beforehand?" 

Which, point. But not _the_ point. 

"Sam!"

"Okay, okay." There was a shuffling noise, murmured voices, then more clearly and with more focus, "What are you about to do?" 

Dean felt heat rise again to the back of his neck and face, glad Sam wasn't able to see it. "Uh, remember that person I'm hunting with?" 

"Yes?" Sam said.  

Dean hesitated for a second before throwing caution to the wind. What the hell; in for a penny, in for a pound. "I'm about to fuck him." 

"Christ, Dean!" Sam cried. "I really don't need to know that at ass o'clock in the morning. Or, you know, ever." 

"But I shouldn't," Dean continued ignoring Sam's outburst.  

Sam sighed, clearly done with the situation. Dean could picture the exact expression on his face even hundreds of miles away. "Why not?" 

"I'm drunk," he admitted though the brisk air seemed to be sobering him up a little. Or maybe it was the conversation.

"Okay." 

"And he's drunk." 

"Okay." 

"And I don't think this is the right time." 

"Not the right time..." A quiet pause. Dean squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh my God, Dean, you really like this guy." 

"I don't want to fuck this up, Sam!" Dean pleaded casting his gaze heavenward to a God he wasn't sure he believed in. "Help me not fuck this up." 

"Why is it not the right time?" 

"I dunno. It's just, his first time wasn't great."

"Not great how?" 

Dean huffed out a frustrated breath. "It's just. It just wasn't great, okay? And I'm just, I don't know."

"Dean," Sam said patiently. "You're overthinking this." 

"Am I?" 

"Yes. You like him." Dean just grunted. "And I presume he likes you?" Another grunt. "Then man up and go for it, dude. If he says stop you stop. If he says go, then go. And call me later. Much later." 

"Yeah," Dean said, licking his lips and feeling like his mouth was inexplicably dry. "Yeah, okay. Bye, Sam." He didn't wait for Sam's response before hanging up. 

Stiles was on the bed when Dean came back in, laying on his side propped up on an elbow and picking at his sleeve, hair damp at his temples and the collar of his shirt where he'd obviously splashed his face with water. Dean wondered if he was nervous, but as soon as their gazes met Stiles' fingers stilled. He met Dean's eyes steadily, almost with challenge. Dean wondered what Stiles could read in his expression. If he could see the nervousness singing in Dean's veins, if he could see the want. Without a word Stiles eased onto his back, nestled amongst to the pillows and tracking Dean's movement across the room. 

Dean set his phone on the nightstand and stared down at Stiles who clenched his jaw then relaxed under the scrutiny. 

"You gonna make a move there, big guy?" Stiles asked cocking his head to the side. "Or are you just gonna stare at me all night?" 

The words prompted Dean into action. He knelt on the bed leaning down to catch Stiles' lips, savoring the silky softness of the younger man's mouth. Stiles tasted like whiskey, and Dean suspected he did as well. Shaking off any lingering doubts Dean threaded a hand through Stiles' hair and kissed him deeply eventually abandoning his lips for the tantalizing pale expanse of his throat. Stiles huffed out a harsh breath shifting restlessly on the bed, and Dean readjusted to slip his thigh between Stiles' legs. 

Stiles arched up against him with a gasp, and Dean tentatively pushed his hands up beneath Stiles' shirt. Receiving no opposition this time, he broke away just long enough to pull it over Stiles' head. Stiles bit his lip, gaze slipping off to the side instead of focusing on Dean. Dean kissed the corner of his mouth, nosing along his jaw until he reached Stiles' ear. 

"Your tattoos are badass," he whispered and Stiles smiled turning his head to give Dean more access. He nipped at Stiles' ear, soothing the bite with a flick of his tongue. "I'll make this good for you." 

Stiles shuddered at his words, hands scrabbling at the hem of Dean's shirt and clumsily pulling it over his head. Dean laughed as the one sleeve got caught on his elbow, having to sit up to untangle his way out. Stiles grinned lazily at him, gaze obviously trailing downwards before he reached out to undo the button on Dean's jeans.

Dean batted his hands away, not yet finished lavishing Stiles with attention.

He trailed his fingers over Stiles' skin tracing the dark lines of the tattoos that curved and twisted over toned muscle, and followed his fingers with his mouth delighting in Stiles' minute shivers. He trailed his fingers lower tracing without thought the scar across Stiles' abdomen and not missing the way Stiles tensed. Dean moved on, mouthing lower at the waistband of Stiles' jeans and groaning as Stiles' hands pulled lightly at his hair then flitted away laying feather light touches over Dean's shoulders and arms like he wasn't sure where to touch. 

Dean captured Stiles' hands with his own, twisting their fingers together and pressing them firmly into the mattress like he could hold Stiles steady through sheer force of will. Stiles moaned as Dean ran his tongue along the edge of Stiles' jeans before dipping lower and nosing along the line of Stiles' cock. 

The sudden loud banging on their door startled both of them, Stiles jerking beneath Dean's mouth like he'd been shot and instinctively shoving Dean off him. Dean rolled with the push, landing only slightly off balance on the floor and grabbing his bowie from the table as he cautiously approached the door. The heavy knocks sounded again this time with a gruff voice calling, "Open up, Dean!" 

Dean swore quietly, ditching the knife and diving for his shirt. He threw Stiles his hoodie and quickly pulled his t-shirt over his head, running his hands through his hair to hopefully mask all the mussing Stiles had done. Sparing a quick glance behind him to make sure Stiles was dressed, Dean pulled the door open.

"Dad?" 

Dad shouldered past him to take a few steps into the room and look around like he was inspecting the place. Stiles shot Dean a questioning look behind Dad's back, and Dean just shrugged. Dad was clearly on edge about something, but hell if Dean knew why.

"Gather your stuff," Dad ordered sparing neither of them even a glance as he turned back to the door. "We have a hunt."

Dean moved without thought, automatically reaching for his duffle and beginning to quickly pack his things. Behind him Stiles echoed his movements just as efficiently. They'd be ready to go in minutes. "What is it?" Dean asked. "What are we hunting?"

Dad paused at the door without looking back. "Werewolves."   


End file.
